


Recollect

by Relevant_Peach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amorality, Background Case, Bottom Harry Potter, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Memory Loss, Mystery, Oral Sex, Out of Character, POV First Person, Suspicious Harry Potter, Unreliable Narrator, but in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relevant_Peach/pseuds/Relevant_Peach
Summary: Harry Potter awakens in hospital, with no memory of his life.  He knows a couple of things.  He likes ice cream.  He remembers how to apparate.  And he's gay.  His girlfriend is in for the surprise of the decade.As Harry learns more about his former life, and the choices he's made, he wonders whether the curse that robbed him of his past is actually a curse, or a chance to do things the way he wants for a change.  Fortunately, a hot blond Harry meets in a bar is willing to come along for the ride as he figures it out.Features an OOC Harry, a secret plot, in which people are UP TO THINGS, and a tiny bit of soul searching about the obligations of being a hero.  Plus, an inexplicably vague Narcissa Malfoy, just because.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 130
Kudos: 462





	1. Chapter 1

The club is packed, even though it has to be after midnight. The doorman takes one look at me and lets me in with a surprised nod, even though I’m pretty sure everyone else is giving him money. Maybe I’m a regular here. I slip through the crowd, and onto the dance floor, which is writhing with bodies. I feel the thump of the bass in my chest, down to my toes, and I start to move to the beat. I’m just getting into it when I feel a presence behind me, a solid chest that presses up against my back. I undulate my hips backwards, and a pair of lithe, but strong, arms grip my shoulders and turn me around. He’s nice looking, a bit slimmer and taller than I am, and he gives me a look of startled recognition. I really must come here a lot. He’s still holding my shoulders, so I loop my arms around his waist, drift closer.

His eyes widen a little, but he looks me up and down appreciatively, and pulls me closer, his thigh slipping between mine. I can work with this. I keep my touches light, move just close enough so that I get a blissful moment of friction against my crotch, and then back away again. His eyes linger below my belt buckle for a moment too long, and then he’s meeting my gaze again, a tongue caught between his teeth as he give me a saucy little grin. The song finishes, the next one starts, and he moves in closer again. “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says into my ear, his breath warm. I shiver at the sensation.

“I’m just here to dance,” I say back, and, upping the ante a little, lick a long stripe along the cord of his neck before I pull my head back to look at his face again. His eyes widen further. He’s delicious, just sweaty enough to taste a hint of salt. He smells like something…a tree, or a fruit, or…I can’t place it, but I like it. His hair is blonde, a little long over his eyes, but short at the back. My hands drift from his waist to his arse, which I squeeze, and one of his own hands grips my neck possessively, while the other cards through my hair. There’s something about his eyes. Maybe it’s just the lighting, but I’d swear they’re silver. He’s still looking at me like there’s something he’s trying to figure out, so I stare at his lips to help him along. They’re a little thin, his lips, but one side of his mouth is quirked up in a sexy little smirk, and I hope that he’ll figure out the answer to whatever question he’s asking and just kiss me already.

The next song ends, and clearly he’s still pondering…whatever, because he says, “Do you want a drink?”

“I’d rather find a dark corner and suck you off, but I suppose a drink is alright too,” I reply, and his eyes look like fucking _coins_ , they’re so round. I start to get a bit nervous, because maybe I’m not interpreting the signals right. Maybe he wasn’t actually chatting me up? Fuck. I don’t fancy getting beaten up for being a creep. “Sorry,” I say, removing my hands from his arse, and giving him some space. “Was that too forward?”

“Holy fuck, Potter, are you for real?” I’m not sure how to answer that, but his using my name suggests that we do know each other, so at least I’m right about that. I’m saved from bluffing my way through an answer, because suddenly someone’s grabbing my shoulder and pulling me away.

I whirl around, wondering if some jealous boyfriend is about to punch me, but nope, it’s the redhead. Ron. _Busted_. “Harry, for fuck’s sake,” he says, over the music. Then, he looks at the hot blonde and says, “Malfoy? What the _fuck_ , Harry?”

Not sure why I’m in trouble for whatever this Malfoy guy’s done, but I shout back, “Hey, Ron. Funny to see you here.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” he says through gritted teeth. “Absolutely a riot, when your wife wakes you at midnight because the tracking charm you put on your best mate’s gone off and you have to follow him through a sweaty bar.”

“You were _tracking_ me?” Is this the kind of shit we get up to regularly?

“What the fuck is going on here,” The blonde interrupts us, and the sexy smirk is gone completely, replaced by a fairly pissed-off glare. I’m definitely not going to get to suck him off, I realize.

“None of your business, Malfoy. Come on, Harry.” Ron’s manhandling me through the club, and I am pretty sure that he and his wife are going to lecture me. Ooo, but Malfoy’s following us, so maybe all isn’t lost. We get out onto the street, which is deliciously cool, compared to the club. I lift the tail of my shirt to mop off my brow, and Malfoy is looking at my stomach, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s back to being interested again.

“Listen, Weasley, I’m getting the impression that Potter’s not interested in going along with you, so maybe you could let us get back to what we were doing.” I can hear his voice more clearly, now that we’re out of the club, and it’s a bit plummy. Rich _and_ hot? Ding _fucking_ ding!

“Fuck. off. Malfoy,” Ron bites out, and it feels like he’s going to rip my arm off as he’s dragging me along.

“Hold up, Ron,” I say. “I was just-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ron orders. I yank my arm free, and I’m about to protest being treated like an errant toddler, when he looks at Malfoy, and says, “Listen. He’s not in his right mind, Malfoy. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know _anyone_. I have to take him home.”

Malfoy, I gather, looks a bit let down at this, and he nods, stiffly, and turns away. Thanks, Ron. Cockblocker extraordinaire, this one. I’m about to mouth off at him, but I turn and he looks so worn-out that I realize I’d better focus on damage control. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know about the charm. I didn’t think I’d wake you up. I was just feeling a bit antsy.”

“Yeah, I know, mate,” he says, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “And don’t think that we won’t talk about how your antsy feelings resulted in you grinding on fucking _Malfoy_ , but tomorrow, yeah? Let’s just go home and get some sleep.”

“Alright,” I say, and then, he spins, and with a disgusting squeezing sensation, we’re hurtling through blackness, and landing with a stumble outside a tidy little cottage, complete with picket fence. Ron touches the rosebushes that are climbing up the porch steps with a fond gesture that looks habitual.

Ron heads straight back to bed, and, with nothing to do and all exits, presumably, watched, there’s nothing left for me but to go to my own room, where I lie under the quilt, remembering silver eyes and a sexy smirk.

I sleep soundly, and when I startle awake I find a set of big brown eyes staring at me. They belong to Rose, who I’m told is my Goddaughter, and I’m just a bit unnerved at having been stared awake. “I was being quiet,” she says defensively, and I can’t help but grin.

“You were,” I assured her. She’s little, but lanky, all arms and legs, and she clambers up into the bed. I am, belatedly, exceedingly grateful to my last night’s self, who managed to throw on a pair of jogging pants before I fell asleep. 

“I’d like the dragon story, this morning,” she announces, her tone filled with the assuredness of a child who often gets her way. I stare at her blankly for a minute. I don’t _know_ a dragon story. Her little forehead wrinkles, and she says, “Oh. Right. Memory.” I shrug apologetically, but she suddenly smiles. “I’ll tell it to you,” she says, patting my arm to comfort me.

“Alright then,” I answer, and she nestles into the crook of my arm. She is warm and snuggly, despite her many elbows and knees, and she smells faintly like a biscuit.

“So,” she begins. “The three best friends need to get the cursed goblet in order to destroy the worstest wizard of all time. They search far and wide, and learn that the terrifying Bella has locked it away in her Gringott’s vault.”

“What’s Gringott’s?” 

She sighs, and says, “It’s the Wizarding bank, Uncle Harry. That’s where treasures are kept.”

I nod, and she says, “If I may,” and I have to stifle a snort because this kid is all of five, and she’s such a _boss_. “The three best friends have to sneak into the vault, and that’s not going to be easy, because Gringott’s is protected by the Goblins, who are smart, and hard to trick. They drink the Polyjuice-”

“And Polyjuice is the-”

“The potion that makes you look like someone else, yes. Anyhow, they take the Polyjuice and they sneak into the bank, and ride the cart, and go into the vault. The evil Bellatrix does not like to share! She makes all of her treasures fool the best friends, and burn them. They look and look and find the goblet! But! Just as they’re leaving, they hear a terrible noise! It’s a dragon! And it’s so mad, Uncle Harry, and it’s just about to eat them. The Goblins try to scare it away, but it gulps them down! And so the three friends, who need to escape to go get the bad wizard and stop him, decide to rescue the dragon! The dragon has been underground for so long, his eyes are tired and sick, and so he can’t see!” Here, she covers her eyes and gives a sad growl. I try not to crack up. “They jump on the dragon’s back, and it flies up, up, up in the sky, and through the ceiling! Crash! And they’re free! And the dragon is so happy that he’s free that they all go swimming in a lake. And that,” she finishes with a satisfied smile, “is the story of the dragon.”

“That’s a good story,” I say. 

“I like the ones that are true best,” she agrees, and I follow her to the breakfast table, shaking my head at her wild imagination.

After we’ve eaten, and Rose has disappeared to play somewhere, Ron and Hermione look at me expectantly. I manfully avoid groaning, and meet their eyes. “Harry,” Hermione says, and there’s something in her tone, something that makes me bristle with annoyance. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

“Do we?” I stand, and carry the dishes to the sink, before running the water and grabbing a sponge. “I apologized for waking you both. I had no idea that you’d placed a monitoring charm on me. If I had, I would have discouraged it, as I’m not a toddler who wanders off after a butterfly.”

“Oh, of course you’re not,” Hermione says, and there’s that tone again. It’s patient, but not a little condescending. “But Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, and until you do, we want you to be safe.”

“I wasn’t the slightest bit unsafe last night.”

“Yes you bloody were!” Ron shouts, and I’m a bit surprised, to be honest. Ron seems so laid back that this seems out of character, and I’m wondering if he’s a homophobe. That’s disappointing. But then I remember that this bloke is that girl’s, Jenny or whatever, sister, and, alright, I suppose he’s a right to be annoyed.

“Listen, if this is about your sister, I told you, I’m really sorry, but I just can’t be with her. I’m sure that Jenny is a-”

“Ginny!” He’s roaring now, and I cast a wary eye towards Hermione to see what she makes of it all. She’s looking a little nonplussed herself, so perhaps this is out of character after all. “And it’s not…well, it is, of course it is about Ginny, but it’s also about Draco Fucking Malfoy!” As he screams the last bit of that sentence, I rear back a little. His face is absolutely bright red, and he’s spat on the table as he yelled. Seems Ron’s not a fan of this Malfoy bloke. Too bad for him. I try his first name out, silent on my tongue…Draco. I like the way it feels.

“Ron,” Hermione says, laying a hand on his arm, and that’s good, because, best friends or no, I’m not sure I want to sit here and get screamed at. Surely I have a house somewhere, and if it’s lectures and screaming on the docket, I may as well go there, even if I don’t get told stories in the morning. “We aren’t going to get anywhere if you get upset. Harry is obviously confused, and we’re meant to be helping him.”

“Harry isn’t, actually,” I say. “Confused, that is. There’s a lot of stuff I’m not sure about, but there are a good few I know for sure. And the first one is that I’m gay. Like, irredeemably. You can yell at me all you like, but I’m just not going to be into fanny, even if you have a pressing desire for me to be.” Ron and Hermione are looking a bit gobsmacked, now, and so I watch them for a bit to see what happens next. Nothing does, and so I continue. “And speaking of that, I’m not sure why you’re both so invested in my being hetero, but it seems a bit strange, just speaking as an outsider.”

Ron looks about to go off about something again, but Hermione breaks in. “It’s just that…well, you haven’t ever said so, before this. And since you have been dating Ron’s sister for the past several years, it’s a bit surprising.”

“Surprising?” Ron roars, and Jesus, I’ve had about enough of this bloke.

Despite the fact that I’ve pretty much reached the end of my patience, I keep my voice even. “Listen, I can understand that if I wasn’t out to you guys before, you’re a bit surprised, but I don’t think you’re going to be able to yell at me and turn me straight, even if you really, really want me to be.” They look dubious, and I’ve had it. “But, if you don’t believe me, let’s go find Jenny, and I’ll see what I can do.” Of course, I have no intention at all of seeing what we can do, but it’s been a strange couple of days, and I’m starting to get awfully tired of people doubting one of the things I have actual empirical data to support. Ron goes purple again, and seems incapable of speech, which…good. (Also, I didn’t forget that her name was Ginny that time, but there’s a small part of me that’s really enjoying winding them up a little).

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Hermione snaps, and I nearly snicker, because ‘for heaven’s sake’ is, frankly, a hilarious thing for a twenty-six year old woman to say. I expect her to clutch at her pearls next, which is also a bit disconcerting, because I have no idea why pearl-clutching is a thing I’m familiar with. “We’re not going to go force you to sleep with Ginny, but Harry, three days ago, the two of you were together, and, as far as I know, you planned to get married.”

“I dunno,” I say, and for a moment, I really don’t know. “I can’t tell you why that bloke was closeted, but last night, when I was grinding on that Malfoy guy in the bar, it was pretty clear which way the wind was blowing.”

“See, but it’s not ‘that bloke’,” Hermione reasons. “ _You’re_ that bloke, Harry. We know you better than anyone else does, and you’ve never said anything that would have us suspect this. And Malfoy is about the last person in the world that I could see you getting off with. You _hated_ each other in school. You tried to kill one another.”

“Well,” I point out, “isn’t that telling you something? How many people do you know who fight like that and don’t have _some_ sexual tension?” They look at me a bit strangely, and I say, “Did you not know anyone else who fought like cats and dogs and it turned out that they just really, really wanted to shag?” They exchange a bit of a look at that, and I inwardly applaud myself for guessing right. These two are chalk and cheese, and her being as bossy as she is, and him with that temper, there’s no way that they weren’t a living example of the same bloody thing.

“But Malfoy, is…well…” Hermione starts.

Ron jumps in, “a git. A horrible, spoiled, racist, selfish git.”

Hermione gives him a glare. “He’s not as bad as all that. But he was on the other side, during, you know…”

“The war,” I say. The war I know nothing about. “But wasn’t that almost ten years ago?”

“It was,” Hermione allows. “But, he…he made some awful decisions.”

“But he wasn’t imprisoned,” I say. “You told me that everyone who’d been really awful was in…thingy. The prison, with the black ghost things.”

“Azkaban. Yes, they are. Including his father,” Hermione says.

“But not Draco,” I confirm.

“Well no, actually, you testified to keep him out.” Is it just me, or does Hermione’s voice sound grudging? She hates being wrong, this one.

I give a little wave of my hands, as though to say, ‘well, there you have it’, and she huffs. “Harry,” she says, “until things are fixed, I really think that you need to trust us. We’re honestly just looking out for you.”

“I know,” I say. And I do. These two have, I’m told, been my mates through all sorts of stuff, and from the way that everyone clams up every time someone mentions school, or the war, or that guy Voldermord, it must have been bad. But there’s something that isn’t adding up. “I do trust you, honestly. And I’m grateful to have you taking care of me, and I expect I’m being a royal pain in your arse while you’re doing it. But, it doesn’t sound like anyone knows how long it’s going to be until I’m fixed, and I can’t very well sit around here with you as my nanny until then, right? I’m going to have to figure some things out on my own, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Hermione says. “I just don’t want you to do anything drastic. You’ve experienced a bit of trauma, and we don’t know how long before you’re feeling more like yourself.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, and it’s true, even if I’m a bit wary of old me’s judgement. “And you’re right. I don’t know what was going on with old me. But the gay thing? That’s a bit of a hard line for me. I’m not going to pretend to be straight to appease some closeted version of myself that may never come back.”

“Do you suppose you’re bi?” Ron asks, and I can tell that this is a concession. He’d really like to find some tidy little box to set me into, particularly one that allows me to keep dating his sister.

“I dunno, Ron, do you suppose you are?” My voice is snappish, and I regret it immediately. “I apologize, that was rude. But, I’m just…not. I’m not bi, and I’m not heterosexual. I could no more easily imagine sleeping with a woman than you could imagine sleeping with a man.”

“Could it be the spell?” Ron wonders out loud. “Maybe it’s like a love potion. Remember Romilda Vane? That potion had me convinced I was mad for her, and I’d never even met her.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says doubtfully. “I can’t imagine how…” she breaks off and looks away, biting her lip, and again, I have no idea why this is so important to them both.

“Well, I don’t know either,” I say, staring at the intriguing lines of a scar on my left hand. “I mean, obviously, I don’t know, but I don’t know how something so absolutely fundamental to who I am could be spell-related. Ron, you say that when you were on a love potion, you were…I dunno, fixated on getting to some girl you didn’t know, and this isn’t like that. It’s not a compulsion. Like, I don’t feel like I’ll die if I don’t get some…er…anyway, what I’m saying is that I just…know this. Like I knew my name is Harry, and I knew that you guys were safe, even if I couldn’t remember your names or whatever. It’s not a new feeling. It’s…who I am. The same way I know that I like ice cream, even though I can’t remember why.” Gods, I am absolute pants at expressing myself, but I need them to see how this is different from any spell-related weirdness. I wonder if the old me would be surprised to find himself discussing sexual identity with his best friends. 

“Anyway,” I continue, when neither one seems inclined to argue, “I acknowledge that you’re working to protect me, and I accept your help, but this one is non-negotiable. Whether that changes in the future, because we reverse this spell, and I find myself inexplicably heterosexual, that’s not true now, and I won’t pretend to be.”

Hermione seems resigned to my declaration, which, I suppose is a good thing, because it’s not like this is some type of committee decision, or, a decision at all, really. Ron looks stunned, and I again wonder what sort of prevaricating arsehole I normally am. What kind of man, at twenty-five years old, needs permission from his best friends to acknowledge his sexual orientation? I hope, likely futilely, given all evidence to the contrary, that I’m not such a waffler about other things. Yet more frustrating, however, is a strange anxious feeling deep in my gut, as though I’m in trouble for something, and I’ve somehow disappointed someone. It feels like walking to the Headmaster’s office, and isn’t that a mindfuck, considering I don’t remember that I ever _had_ a Headmaster?

Ron and Hermione both are looking at me expectantly, and I realize that I’ve been off with the fairies a bit, contemplating my weird relationship with them. It hardly seems prudent to admit that, so I do what comes naturally. “Er, sorry. Was thinking.” 

I feel myself grinning, heat climbing my neck, and clearly that’s a typical response, because Hermione just huffs, and says, “It’s time to go to the Burrow.”

I feel inexplicably tired, especially for someone who’s done fuck-all but listen to a story and ponder my sexuality over scones, but it appears that attendance isn’t optional, so I obligingly follow them to the floo.

Weasleys are, it turns out, loud. They’re boisterous, and good-natured, and inclined towards embarrassing one another in inventive ways. I watch the goings on with the air of an anthropologist, because there’s just so much to unpack here. Running through all of it, the shouts, and the laughter, and the hexes, and, on one occasion, the exchanged punches between two of the brothers, there’s such an undercurrent of love and affection, that, in spite of myself, my heart throbs a bit, and I try to parse the strange combination of inclusion and otherness that I’m feeling.

Because, it’s clear, I’m a member of this family, if a foundling one. The second I stepped through the floo, the matriarch, who keeps insisting that I call her Molly, enfolded me in a hug that just dripped with love. She squeezed hard, as though trying to keep me from pulling away, and I felt so seen by her that I realize that, whatever’s happened in my life, this woman sees me as hers. The husband, Arthur, is close behind her, a man who seems to be permanently bemused. His eyes, so much like his son’s, are warm as they fix on me, and he shakes my hand, saying “Alright there, Harry?”

Next, I’m meeting a ruggedly scarred fellow, who’s clearly one of them, but looks a bit older, and his alarmingly attractive wife, followed by yet another one, who tells me that his name is George, and sports…well _doesn’t_ sport, I suppose, a missing ear. Jesus, what has _happened_ to these people? It had been bad enough the first time I showered, discovering a roadmap of scars across my body. I know they’ve told me I’m in law enforcement, but I must be absolutely _terrible_ at my job.

The earless wonder sits me down on a squashy sofa and says, with not a little bit of mischief in his voice, “So, Harry, tell me everything.”

I laugh. I like this one, even if something’s telling me not to turn my back on him for long. “Considering I’ve a sum total of three days worth of information in my head, it’ll be a short catchup.”

“A curse, you say! How interesting,” George prods, and his impish wink makes me decide to play along.

“Picture it,” I say. “Midnight, a dark warehouse. I’m sneaking through the shadows, because that’s what I do. At my job. Sneak, and vanquish evil, that sort of thing. I’m looking dashingly handsome, of course, in my dark green robes-”

“Red,” he says. “Aurors wear red robes.”

“Who’s telling this?” I demand. “I’m undercover, obviously. Actually, now that I’m thinking of it, why would Aurors wear red robes? That just seems poorly thought out. I suppose they have a great big target painted on their hats as well?” George laughs, and I continue. “I digress. So, I’m sneaking along, my trusty canine at my side.”

“What’s his name?”

“If you keep interrupting me, you’ll never get to the good part,” I say, stalling for time, because I haven’t the faintest idea what to name the fictitious dog I’ve just invented.

“Scene-building is important. I want to feel as though I’m there with you.”

“Fine. _Her_ name is Diane, and shame on you for being sexist.” I fix him with a stern look, and he feigns chastisement, his eyes showing how absolutely delighted he is with me. I guess his family doesn’t do this with him. “So we’re sneaking through the warehouse, in search of the baddies. They’re just…wicked bad arseholes, plotting to take over the world, and I’m in their lair. There are crates and crates of fireworks everywhere, and I’m just about to uncover the one piece of evidence I need to put them away for life. I hear a noise behind me, and I whirl around to see…him. The chief baddie of them all. He’s ugly, disfigured, missing a leg, and,” I say, taking a chance, “even more horrifyingly, also missing…an ear. It’s disgusting. Put me off my dinner for a week.”

“Oi,” he says in warning tones that are offset by the way his his grin widens.

“I haven’t even told you the worst part,” I say. “He’s also,” I pause for effect, “a ginger!”

George thumps me on the arm, but he’s laughing, so I continue. “I retch, completely put off by the ear, and the gingery hair everywhere, and he uses my distraction to throw a chew toy for Diane. She can’t help herself, it’s instinct for a dog. She’s compelled, runs after the chew toy, she’s gone. It’s just me and him.” I’ve noticed that a few of George’s siblings have drawn near and are listening to the story, but I continue as though it’s just him and I. “I’m brilliant, of course. Spells flying, I’m ducking, weaving, creating a legion of clockwork soldiers that fight him with a wave of my wand. But alas, every hero has a weakness, and my arch enemy knows mine. He conjures a jam tart, a thing of beauty, and levitates it my way. I try to be strong, but I’m just a man, and my attention wavers, for just a split second. And that’s enough,” I finish, “for the bastard to cast a spell that robs me of all of my memories.”

“Merlin,” A new, thin Weasley has appeared in the assembled collection. He pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Is that true, Harry?”

“Percy, you numbnuts,” Ron says, punching him in the shoulder hard enough that the thin man stumbles. “He’s lost his memories, he hasn’t got a clue what happened.”

“I may have embellished,” I say, and George grins at me.

“What do we know about what happened?” It’s the scarred-up one, Bill, who asks.

“We dunno exactly. Harry was undercover, and he was in a warehouse,” Ron says. He’s obviously cadged a biscuit from the kitchen, and he speaks in between bites. “He was an idiot who didn’t call for backup, and, because he’s an idiot,” this said with a fairly dark look in my direction, “he went in alone-”

“Without his dog,” George supplies.

“And the potion smuggler cast some sort of hex on him. He was found unconscious and taken to Mungo’s. When he woke up, he didn’t have a clue what was going on.”

“I liked your version better,” George offers, “but what about the fireworks?” I am about to answer, but the door bangs, and Molly cries, “Ginny,” and that seems to be the universal signal for ‘lunch is ready’.

She waylays me in the doorway, Ginny, that is, not Molly, and kisses my cheek. “You smell like outside,” I say.

“Been flying all morning. Tryouts for the Harpies soon,” she says. I assume she means Quidditch, which, I’m told, is brilliant.

“What position do you play?”

She gives me a look that I can’t quite place. Part annoyed, part sad, and a hint of something else, but she says, “Chaser,” and I nod as though I know what that means.

The food is excellent, and as I’m looking around at the open friendly faces, I think I’m starting to understand why old me might have been reluctant to open up about my sexuality. Ron and Hermione have told me, in brief, that I don’t have parents, that they died when I was small. It’s quite a long story, they assure me, and, given their faces when they said that, I expect that it will be a treat, once we find the time. They’ve also told me some alarming things about my Muggle relatives, and something about bars on a window and a daring nighttime rescue in a flying Anglia. So I don’t have anyone, really, not proper family. No doubt that’s been tough on me, and if I was worried that their acceptance was conditional upon my marrying their only girl, maybe the lie would be worth it.

As we’ve eaten, and had tea, and I’ve dozed off a bit of a lovely food coma, Hermione cheerfully suggests that Ginny and I take a walk, and she’s doing these encouraging head bobs towards the door. I’m pretty sure she’s thinking that some time alone will rekindle whatever spark old me and Ginny have been tending to. I can’t very well say, “I don’t want to be alone with her because if she kisses me it’s going to be awkward,” so I agree, and before I know it, we’re walking through an orchard. The silence stretches, long and terrible, and I finally blurt out what I’ve been wondering. “Why are we together?”

“What?” Ginny looks a bit insulted. Whoops. Damnit.

“I just mean, I don’t know you right now, and maybe it will help me to remember if you tell me about our relationship.”

“Oh, okay.” Ginny thinks for a moment. “Well, we both like Quidditch. And I’ve had a crush on you since first year at Hogwart’s. And you’re quite handsome,” she says, and I raise my eyebrow at her. That’s it? That’s all she can come up with? “Yeah, alright, you put me on the spot,” she mutters. “It’s hard to quantify, Harry, we’ve been together a long time.”

“So I assume we’re quite serious?”

“Yes,” she says, and I’d bet even money that’s a look of doubt on her face. “We’ve talked about getting married.”

“Ginny, can I ask you something, honestly? And I’m not trying to be an arse or anything, I’m honestly just trying to understand. Have I ever given you the impression, in any way, that I might not be 100% straight?”

She stops walking abruptly, pulls her long hair back from her face and stares up into the sky for a moment. Finally, she breathes out an enormous breath, and turns to face me. “Not,” she says carefully, “by anything you’ve ever said.”

If she’s waiting for an answer from me, she’ll be waiting a while, because I know she has more to say. “But,” she continues, “you’re not really much for saying anything. Not about the important stuff. You don’t talk to anyone, Harry. Not about your childhood, not about the war, not about why, sometimes, after we’ve made love, as soon as you think I’m asleep you leave the room and walk around outside.”

“That’s not much to go on, is it,” I say.

“No. It isn’t. But you and I have been together a long time. When we first got together, in school, you were never interested in anything physical. I thought that you were just immature, or maybe just stressed because of the war. But then,” she says, and she’s playing with her hair again, “afterwards, when we got back together, you still didn’t want to. I have to be the instigator, every time.”

“Every time?”

She flushes. “Yes, okay. I thought it was just some sort of…” she waves her hand vaguely, “trauma thing. And…” her face suddenly burns brighter red, and she looks away. “And, you usually only come when you take me from behind.”

“Ginny,” I say, and I can’t imagine how she must be feeling. She’s, objectively speaking, beautiful, and this must be a nightmare for her self-esteem. “That doesn’t seem fair to anyone.”

“I know,” she says miserably. “I love you, Harry, I really do, but it can be really difficult. If you ever just told me anything, even once…”. She trails off, her voice wobbling towards tears. “You talk to Ron and Hermione, a bit, but never me. And it makes me crazy. I’m not this girl, you know? I’m not this needy, weak, girl, desperate for whatever crumb she can get.”

“Ginny,” I repeat, and she looks up at me, her brown eyes shiny. “I’m gay. I don’t know if old me was so fucked up he couldn’t see it, or he could see it, but couldn’t bear to give up someone like you. I can imagine it’s really hard to let go of something that _should_ be so right. But you and I both deserve better. I think you know that as much as I do.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, I do.” She looks down at her tiny little hands, and bursts into tears, which are, thankfully, short-lived. I pull her close and hold her until she stops. “Fuck,” she says, half-laughing, and sniffs a bit wetly. She’s one of those girls that looks pretty when she cries. “Did we just break up?”

“Yeah, I reckon so,” I answer, trying to keep my voice gentle.

“Are you okay?”

I laugh, and it sounds a bit closer to hysteria than I’d like. “I dunno. Not really? I might get my memories back in a week and be absolutely furious with myself.”

“Or, you might not.” I don’t know if she means that I won’t get my memories, or if I won’t be furious, but it doesn’t matter.

“Do you think we’re the kind of people who will be friends after they break up?” I sort of hate how vulnerable I sound.

“I think so,” she says. “At some point. Maybe not today.”

“For what it’s worth,” I say, stroking her hair a little, “I’m really sorry that you’re hurting. I’m pretty sure I would never hurt you on purpose.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says. We walk back into the house, and she immediately climbs the stairs. Ron and Hermione look up at me from their seat on the sofa, and I shake my head the tiniest bit. Ron’s face goes a bit thundery, and Hermione bites her lip. It’s awkward, after that, the easy conversation that had been taking place when Ginny and I returned seeming to fizzle out. I’m relieved when Ron and Hermione started making ‘time to go home’ noises.

Relieved, that is, until we arrive back at theirs, and Ron turns on me the second Rose is encouraged to go play in her room. “What happened,” he demands.

“We broke up,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, and downplay things.

“Harry!” Hermione sounds super judgemental, and I feel myself getting defensive.

“Look, it was amicable, and mutual. I didn’t just storm in and break her heart or something. And,” I add, squaring my shoulders, “something tells me that Ginny doesn’t appreciate her big brother defending her honour, or whatever it is that you’re doing.”

Ron looks a bit chastened at that, and again, I’m pleased that my instincts are, again, serving me well. “I got the impression that we’ve stayed together because it was expected of us. Ginny couldn’t really produce any compelling reasons other than a mutual affection for Quidditch and a first-year crush. Then I asked her if she’d ever suspected I might not be into women, and she seemed relieved that I’d figured it out.”

Ron makes a distressed noise, and I wonder if there’s going to be any way I can get him to see reason. “Look, Ron, you love your sister and you want the best for her, yeah?” Ron grunts in the affirmative, but his face is quite red, and if I’m not mistaken, I’m still just inches away from a punching. “Let’s just imagine for a moment that I’m right. That Ginny and I have been going through the motions while I ignore my big gay epiphany or whatever. Do you really want her to settle for that? A mediocre sex life,” he makes that distressed sound again, and that’s how I learn that older brothers like to pretend their baby sisters don’t have sex, “and a relationship that’s mostly based on an eleven-year-old girl’s romantic crush?”

Hermione’s looking closely at me, and I can see that I’m appealing to her sense of logic. I’m starting to figure out how these two work. She’s reason, and righteousness, and utterly, completely convinced that she’s right about 98% of the time. He’s emotion, and bloody-minded loyalty, and fairly content to let her do the thinking for both of them. I have no idea where I fit into this friendship, but I suppose there’s time enough to figure that out.

“I think he’s right,” Hermione says, and Ron looks at her with a mix of horror and fury. She laughs into his outraged face and says, “Honestly, Ron, if you’d stop to think about it for a second, you’d see what I mean. Don’t get me wrong,” she continues hastily as his complexion goes a bit redder, “I think Harry’s being hasty, making all sorts of far-reaching decisions at a vulnerable time in his life, but you know that Ginny talks to me about things, and she’s been unhappy for a while, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself.”

“Anyway,” I say, not all that interested in deconstructing my life with anyone, even people I’m pretty sure I love, “if I get my memory back, and realize I’ve made a huge mistake, Ginny and I can talk. If she’s been unhappy, then clearly there was some stuff we needed to work through.”

Ron looks reasonably placated by this, and I’m relieved. I can’t help feeling a bit annoyed that my every decision seems to be vetted by these two, but there’s something in this dynamic that I am still piecing together. “Hey, Harry,” Ron says suddenly. “You should go for a run.”

“Huh?”

“You look like you feel a bit twitchy, and I figured that you might not realize that running helps you when you’re like this.” Now that he mentions it, I do feel like my nerve endings are buzzing. Maybe there is something to having people who know you this well. 

I throw him a grateful look, and say, “Yeah, alright. I’ll just…” I wave vaguely at the direction of the spare room, and go throw on a pair of trackies and a t-shirt.

Running does help, and clearly I do it a lot, because a half hour later, I’m still running smoothly, no sign of exhaustion or pain. My thoughts are blissfully tranquil. I listen to the slap of my trainers against the ground, and the methodical sound of my breath. I’m aware of the wind against my face, drying the sweat, and the tension that I didn’t even realize I was carrying dispels with each footfall. It’s nearing dark by the time I return to Ron and Hermione’s, and, once I’m showered and back in the living room, gratefully accepting a beer, I feel much better.


	2. Chapter 2

Better enough, I think, to address the elephant in the room. “So, if it’s going to take a while to get my memories back, I think I need to figure out a few things,” I say. Hermione takes a breath, and I can tell she’s been waiting for this. “But,” I continue, “I gather I’m not the smartest bloke around, but even I can see that my life has been…well…”

“Kind of shit,” Ron supplies, and I grin in his direction.

Hermione huffs. “It hasn’t been kind of shit!” I raise my eyebrows at her and she smiles tightly. “Alright, yes, you’ve had more than your share of obstacles, but it’s what’s made you who you are.” She bites her lip, and I swear I can see tears swim in her eyes before she says, “And who made you think that you weren’t smart?”

“Nobody,” I say, even if that’s not exactly correct. “I just get the impression that I’m a bit more brawn than brain. Anyhow, like I was saying, I know you’re going to have to give me a rough idea of how I got here, and what’s happened, but maybe I don’t need every detail. Like, paint it in broad strokes for now, and you can fill in everything as we go.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hermione says. “And we don’t have to do it all at once.”

Even with the abridged version, it takes nearly three hours. When they’ve finished talking, I don’t know what to say. I sit there, silent, until Hermione asks, “Harry?” Her voice is hesitant.

“Uff,” I say. “That was…a lot. Are you sure you gave me the easy version?”

“Yes,” they say in unison. 

“No wonder I was so fucked up!”

“Was?”

“Am, I suppose. But probably less so, since I don’t remember anything. I mean it though, how did I even _function_?”

“You worked a lot,” Hermione says.

“Yeah, that’s the other thing. I spent my whole life being thrown into mortal peril, and literally _die_ , and then I decide to keep on risking my life for the same people who called me a looney? When I was an actual _child_? Why? Why would I do that?”

“I dunno, mate,” Ron says. “I think you thought it was your duty.”

“Oh _fuck_ that,” I say. “Did I seem to like it?”

“You liked the training,” Ron says. “Duelling and learning spells. After we made Junior Aurors though, it was a lot of politics. When it wasn’t about risking our lives.”

“So you were one too?”

“Yeah. We both joined up after the war. I quit when Hermione got pregnant, though. Went to work with George.”

“See? That’s the sort of job I should have. Something a bit fun.” I feel restless. “Hey, let’s go to Diagon. Also, why would I remember Diagon, but not the Ministry? Why don’t I remember Hogwarts?”

“That is weird, mate. It’s almost like you’ve been-”

“Ice cream!” Hermione interrupts Ron, and her face is determined. “Let’s go get ice cream.”

“Alright, but if we're on Diagon, I don’t want to go to Wheeze’s. If I’m taking time off, I’m not going to hang around bloody work.”

“About that,” I say. “Maybe when we’re done, you could show me where I live. You should enjoy your holiday, not babysit me.”

“Harry, you’re welcome to stay here until you get your feet under you,” Hermione replies, her big brown eyes searching my face.

“Thanks, and I may, if needed, but it might not be a bad idea to see if I can go it on my own a bit.” In truth, I need some alone time. I can tell instinctively that these two love me, and are the sort of people who would help me bury a body…for all I know, they have done, but their energy is a bit intense. I want to sit in a quiet room, drink something smoky that burns its way down my throat, and be alone with my thoughts. Also, wank, but they don’t need to know that either.

“Alright, then,” Ron says easily. “Meet you at Diagon?”

“Yeah, alright.” For some reason, even though I can’t remember a lot of the incantations for spells, anything that’s wandless or action-based is easy. Muscle memory, I suppose. It’s still not perfect though, as I wind up way down the wrong end of Diagon, and have to jog to the alleyway behind Wheeze’s, where we’ve agreed to meet. As soon as I get there, I say, “I need to grab some Galleons. Okay for a quick stop at…” I struggle to remember, and then pluck the name from my mind, “Gringott’s?”

Ron grins, “Yeah, ‘course. They still get so twitchy when the three of us go in together.” Right. The Dragon thing. I still can’t believe that’s a real story.

I’m waiting in the queue for the teller when something catches my eye. To my surprise, it’s the bloke from the club. “Draco,” I say without thinking, and it must have come out louder than I expected, because he turns to look. When his eyes land on mine, one side of his lip curls up in a smirk. I wink, and he looks startled, and then turns and scurries away into one of the offices. I can feel Ron watching me, and so I let it go for the moment.

Gold acquired, we leave Gringott’s, and walk the short distance to Fortesque’s. It’s packed with people, and a whole bunch of them come up to me, wanting to shake my hand, or thank me. One woman asks me to sign her baby, which, Boy Who Lived or not, is a bit weird. I’m polite, but firm with everyone, and flatly refuse to sign any body parts, but I make sure to smile while I say it, and after the initial furor, we’re left alone. Ron and Hermione are now openly staring. Only Rose is studiously looking through the glass cases, trying to select her ice cream flavour. “What?” I ask them.

Hermione gives me another one of her unreadable looks. “It’s just, you never manage to get left alone in Diagon.”

“Really? Why did you bring me here, then?”

“We usually just cast a shield charm, and people go away eventually.”

“But that’s rude,” I argue. “And, if you make a big deal, of course people are going to want to get at me. I think this way works better.”

“No, it does,” Hermione says, and her head is tilted at me in obvious appraisal, “but you were never willing to try before.”

Faced with another example of how I’m a joyless fucking tosser, I shrug, and join Rose at the ice cream cases. “What are you thinking?” I ask her in a low voice.

She takes my hand. “I like the lemon, but I also like the peanut butter.”

“Why not get both?”

“Do you think that will work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Mommy will never let me have two.”

“Then order quick, before she notices.”

I order a double scoop of treacle delight. I couldn’t tell you what it tastes like, but something tells me I’ll enjoy it. Rose, who’s smart enough to take advantage of opportunities, quickly orders her two choices, and they’re ringing us up quick, before Hermione and Ron have noticed what’s happening. We exchange a delighted glance, and Rose pops off to find a table while I pay.

The girl behind the counter grins at me. “Hi Mister Potter,” 

“It’s Harry,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Louise. Don’t you remember me?”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” I say. “I got cursed, and I’ve forgotten more than I remember. It’s nothing personal. I’ll remember you now.”

The queue is lengthening behind us, but Louise ignores them. “That’s awful! What are you going to do?”

I grin. “I’m going to eat ice cream.”

She laughs, hands me my change, which I put in her tip jar, and says, “I hope to see you soon.”

As Rose and I are sitting at the table, waiting for Ron and Hermione, I say, “This place looks like fun. Everyone’s happy here.”

“Nothing makes people happier than ice cream,” Rose agrees sagely. I think she’s on to something.

Ron and Hermione agree to take me to my flat. Apparently, I’ve confirmed for them that I know enough wandless magic and remember enough of Diagon Alley not to be a danger to myself. We clear the wards, and I look around. It’s bland. Clean enough, but from the brown sofa to the beige walls, I’m uninspired. I look at the photos on the mantle. “Who’s this guy?” I ask with interest. 

“That’s your godfather, mate. That’s Sirius.”

Not sure how I could have had a godfather as smoking hot as this and _still_ not realize I’m gay. He’s smirking up at the camera, leaning against an old motorbike. Too bad he’s dead. He looks like a lot of fun.

Rose is yawning, so the Weasleys make their excuses, and disappear through the floo. I wave my hand and ward it shut, and then set about looking around. Two hours later, I’ve come to the realization that I’m the most boring bloke that’s ever walked the earth. The only books I own appear to be about my bloody _job_ , and the only evidence of a hobby is a broom that stands in the corner. A closer examination reveals that it’s got a cobweb. One cool pastime, and I don’t even do that with any frequency. I consider taking it out now, but knowing my luck, broom flying will be a spell I don’t remember. Stupid curse.

There’s a diary sitting on my desk, amongst a pile of parchment that all seem to be case files (surprise, surprise!). I flip the diary open, and page backward. Court dates, mostly. The only people I seem to see with any regularity are Ron and Hermione. There’s a healer appointment a month back, with the annotation ‘wild magic’, but knowing me, it’s research for a fucking case.

I concede defeat, and settle onto the couch with a thick photo album. There’s a couple who could only be my parents. I can’t remember their names, and it bothers me more than anything else has so far. I can ask Hermione, of course. I’m sure she’d know, but _I_ should know, damnit. Especially since they apparently died trying to protect me. If nothing else, they look happy. The woman has a sparkle in her eyes that suggests that there’s more to her than her wholesome good looks suggest. The man appears to be a cocky shit, but there’s a warmth in his smile that makes me wish to know him. I leaf through the pages. There’s a ripped photo of a baby that must be me, followed by the legs of a man, as I ride a broomstick through the frame. There’s another picture of the hot godfather again, surrounded by a bunch of other people. I pick my parents out, but can’t place anyone else.

A few pages later, there’s a picture of a much tinier Ron, Hermione and myself. We’re grinning widely and our arms are slung around one another. I look closely at my face, wondering what I was thinking about. I look chuffed to be hanging with my best mates, but it’s clearly at least first year, so I was already being hunted by a madman. I think I see a tightness in my expression, around my eyes, but maybe I’m projecting.

There’s a couple more pictures in the album. A startlingly poignant one of Hermione, perched on a huge rock, beside a lake, a thick book open on her lap. She looks up and smiles, but goes immediately back to her reading.

The last photo in the album is one of me, and I look at it for a long time. I’m absolutely filthy, for one thing, my denims ripped and one thin shoulder peeking out of my jumper. My hair looks mad, but it seems that’s a fairly common occurrence. I’m not looking at the camera, my attention captured by something behind the photographer, but I look…haunted. I’m just a kid, but my expression is ancient, weary. There’s smoke in the background, and I suddenly just know that this is taken after the last battle of the war. Wondering again who would lay the fate of the world on the skinny shoulders of a seventeen year old kid, I close the album, and, with nothing better to do, I go to bed.

When I awaken the next morning, I’m immediately filled with a sense of foreboding, which is troubling. I stretch in the bed, which is much more comfortable than the one at Ron and Hermione’s, and roll over, only to see a pair of beady eyes, enfolded in a ridiculous collection of wrinkly skin. It’s like the folds of skin have folds of skin. The…whatever it is…has gigantic ears that make it look like a greyish bat. It’s different from the Goblins at the bank, but absolutely not human. And it’s watching me intently. I am frozen, unable to decide whether moving will make it attack me.

“Master Harry has returned,” the thing says. Its voice is deep and gravelly. I assume that it’s a male, but what do I know?

“Er…yes,” I reply. If he’s calling me Master, he’s clearly not about to kill me, but you’d think that Hermione would have let me know that I had some sort of slave.

“Kreacher is to be preparing Master Harry’s breakfast?” He sounds pretty hopeful, but I’m not really sure I trust him with food preparation. He doesn’t look exactly clean.

I’m unaccountably embarrassed. This little fellow seems delighted, in his way, to see me, and I don’t know how he’ll take the fact that I don’t remember him. “Kreacher, that’s your name?” I ask.

“Master Harry is not remembering Kreacher’s name?” See? He does look hurt. My first day as a slave owner, and I’m already fucking it up.

“Sorry Kreacher. I was hit by a spell, and I don’t remember anything. I didn’t even remember that…” I trail off as I realize that ‘things like you exist’ isn’t the politest way to begin a relationship.

“Master Harry isn’t even remembering his house elf at all?” Sweet Merlin, is he about to cry? Please don’t cry, I beg silently.

“I’m sorry, Kreacher, I didn’t remember anything, not even important stuff like…house elves. Not Ron or Hermione, or…anyone.”

“Kreacher will be helping, then,” he says, as though it’s an enormous burden, but he’s prepared to face it. Bit of a martyr, this one.

“That’s great, Kreacher, thanks,” I say, and his wrinkly, odd face beams back at me. “I think I’ll just go have a shower, then.”

“Kreacher will be making breakfast, and coffee,” he enthuses.

“Oh…are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“Kreacher is a good house elf, and there is no trouble for serving his Master.” And, just like that, he’s back to being offended.

“Wonderful. I’m really lucky, then, to have a good house elf. Thanks.” This prompts a somewhat suspicious look, but then, when he realizes I’m not taking the piss, he smiles again, and disappears from the room with a loud pop. Honestly, I’m going to have words with Ron and Hermione about this. They made sure to tell me about an owl I had in school that’s been dead for half a decade, but no mention of a currently living…person? Animal? Creature? I suppose the name fits.

Breakfast goes smoothly, with Kreacher plying me with more food than I think I could consume in a week. I learn that he doesn’t actually live here, and also that I apparently own another house. Why I’m living in the most boring flat known to man while I own an entire house, I have no idea. It’s bound to be more exciting than this one.

Hermione reminded me four separate times that I’ve an appointment at the Ministry this morning, so I floo through, and land in a spacious Atrium. The location is familiar, but distantly, as though it’s a place I once dreamed. I walk past the coffee kiosk, and towards the lifts, but I’m stopped by a statuesque woman in red robes. “Harry,” she says, and her smile transforms her rather plain face into something sort of beautiful.

“Hello,” I say pleasantly.

“Salazar,” she says, the smile falling. “You don’t remember me at all?”

“I’m so sorry,” I confide. “I had a bit of an accident. I’m having some troubles with my memory.”

“I know, Harry. I’m your partner.”

“Oh!” I grin at her, delighted. “You’re Millicent, then?”

“Yeah, but you call me Mill.”

“Good to know. I’m sorry I don’t remember you. According to Ron and Hermione, I like you an awful lot.”

She chuckles. “You’re a sap, Potter.” I shrug. “I assume you’re here to meet Kingsley?”

“He’s the Minister, yeah?” Mill nods, and I continue, “Then yeah, that’s where I’m headed. Is it weird that the Minister of Magic wants to talk to me? Like, why would he care?”

Mill’s laugh fills the lift, as she pushes the button for the ninth floor. “You’re Harry Potter, you gobshite. Of course he wants to make sure the Saviour is well, especially since he got hurt on the job.”

“Yeah, about that. Are you going to be able to fill me in on what happened?”

“What I know, sure. It was strange, Harry. We got separated, and the wards ejected me, but you were trapped inside.”

“Why were we there in the first place?”

“We got an anonymous tip about a potions buy from a group of smugglers we’ve been tracking. We were doing surveillance outside the warehouse where the buy was supposed to go down. It was all just a routine day, when you pulled something out of your pocket and looked at it, got a look on your face like your baby was on fire or something, and you just took off running inside. I followed you, but the minute I crossed the threshold, the wards popped me back out onto the pavement, and I couldn’t get in. I called for backup, and threw every spell I know at the wards, but they wouldn’t fall. Then, a half hour later, just as backup finally arrived, the wards came down, and we found you inside, unconscious, all alone.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Potter, we’ve been partners for three years. That’s like, an average morning for you.”

“Really?”

“Let’s just say that you have a tendency to act before thinking.”

“So I’m a dumbass?”

Mill laughs again. The lifts have spat us out onto a long corridor, and she’s leading me along as we talk. “You aren’t a dumbass. You care too much, you throw yourself in front of danger to protect others. You’re also shockingly lucky, so that helps.”

“Hmm,” I say. I can’t say I love the hero complex thing, but it would appear I’ve made a career of it.

“This is it,” Mill says, motioning towards a door. There’s a desk, behind which a stern looking old lady sits. She sees me, and her lip quirks.

“Mister Potter,” she says, her voice crisp and formal.

“Hi there. Apparently, I’m to see the Minister,” I say.

“Of course,” she says. Mill waves at me, and gives me another one of those amazing smiles as she departs. “Have a seat, dear.” I perch on the uncomfortable desk chair outside the office, and smile my thanks. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” I say. “Things are a bit strange. How are you?”

She gives me a look. “Do you remember me?”

“No,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in how your day is going.”

She grins at me. “It’s fine, Harry.” She seems to be watching me, so I busy myself with looking at the photograph on her desk. It’s a muddy-brown dog, who seems to have two tails that wave so hard they’re a blur.

“I like your dog,” I say. 

Apparently, this is the best possible way to break the ice. She regales me with tales of Reginald the Crup, and we pass the time quite pleasantly until an impossibly deep voice says through the closed door, “Agnes, is Potter here?”

“He is,” she calls back.

“Send him in.”

She smiles, and I return it, thanking her for her company while I waited. I open the door, and positively massive man stands up from behind his desk. “Harry,” he booms.

“Hi,” I say, and am surprised when he comes around the desk to enfold me in a hug. It’s sort of like what a giant’s hug must be like, I imagine. I know I’m a shortarse, but this makes me feel tiny.

He gestures for me to sit, so I do. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” I say. “It’s strange, but I’m healthy. Just confused, but I remember how to get to the ice cream place, so all the important stuff is still there.”

He smiles. “How’s your magic?”

I shrug. “Dunno, really. The healers say my Magical Core is fine, but I can’t really remember much. Anything from before that I could do wandlessly and silently, I remember, but all of the incantations and wand movements are gone completely.”

He frowns. “That’s not ideal.”

“Tell me about it. What a disappointment, to know that I’m a wizard, but all I can do is light candles and apparate.”

“And what do the Healers say?”

I shrug again. “They’ll call me if they find something. They didn’t seem very optimistic.”

Kingsley frowns. “Harry, that’s…not convenient.”

I snort. “Obviously.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, and he looks a bit stressed, honestly. “Robards is retiring.”

“And Robards is…”

“Sorry. Head Auror Robards. Your boss.”

“Oh. Well, good for him, I suppose.”

“Harry, we were grooming you for his position. We’ve had this succession plan in place for almost a year.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That is inconvenient.”

“Yes. Well, we have four months until Robards plans to step down. We could put you into intensive training, I suppose. Maybe send you to Hogwarts to get you back up to speed on your magic, then get you in with the Auror Training Squad…” he’s clearly thinking out loud.

“Hey Kingsley?” I interrupt. “What’s the Head Auror’s job like?”

He looks at me funny. “You’re in charge of the Auror Department.”

“Right. But, like, what would I do?”

“Well, you manage the budget, and you attend Wizengamot, that’s our judicial system, meetings, you’d be the public face of the Aurors, and work with the press to communicate things. You’d be responsible for ensuring that policies and procedures are followed by your team. You’ll sign off on all arrest reports, and be responsible for tactical operations.”

“Tactical operations…like out in the field?” I ask eagerly.

“Well, no. You’d be here at base, but you’d be communicating closely with the Senior Aurors who lead tactical teams.”

“Oh,” I say. That sounds…terrible, actually. “Well, I suppose with things as they are, we should both think about what happens next,” I say.

Kingsley looks startled. “Harry, why is my intuition telling me that you’re reconsidering this job offer?”

I can tell the look on my face is pained. “I…No…I’m not, not exactly. I mean, it doesn’t sound like something I’d love. Everything that my friends are telling me about myself, I think I might be sort of terrible at it.”

“You wouldn’t be. It would be a big change from what you’re doing now, but…” Kingsley sighs. “Harry, I’m sure you can imagine how important it is to keep stability in the high-ranking Ministry offices, even this long after the War. Our citizens’ trust was shaken by what happened during Voldemort’s siege. The Ministry has a lot to answer for, as a governing body, and if we don’t have their trust…”. He regards me with a mix of affection and sternness. “You are the most trusted individual in our society, Harry. You’re the one who saved us all. To see you rising through the ranks in our law enforcement body gives people hope, it keeps their faith that the Ministry is learning from the mistakes of our past. You can’t underestimate the importance of your role.”

I don’t know how I know, but I _know_. “This is strictly a political appointment. You’re promoting me into a position I’ll be terrible at, to operate as a figurehead.”

“Not at all,” he argues, but his face says _not completely_. “You’re an excellent Auror, Harry. You have natural leadership abilities, and a strong moral compass. You’re being hired based on your merits.”

“Partially,” I allow, “but something tells me that my strengths are in the field. From what I can tell, I rely on others for the strategic thinking, and succeed because of a lack of self-preservation and dumb luck.”

Kingsley’s brow wrinkles, and I’m sure he’s about to feed me a bunch of platitudes about my suitability for the job, but I continue, “Listen, Kingsley, I’m not saying no. But, as it stands right now, unless I get my memory back, or learn a whole pile of magic in a short time, there’s no way I could take it. I need a bit of time. I’ll try to figure out how to regain my memories, okay? And then we’ll talk.”

“I need an answer soon.”

“How long?”

“Three weeks? If you don’t take it, we’ll have to find someone else who’s suitable, and time isn’t on our side. But Harry, there’s _no one_ else who’s suitable. I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that our society’s stability relies on this.”

“Alright. I’ll confirm soon, okay? In the meantime, can I have a quick look at my desk? I’d like to know more about the case I was working on, and who knows…maybe it will spark a memory of something.”

“Of course, Harry, whatever you need. I’ll walk you down there myself.”

The journey to the Auror offices doesn’t take long, but I don’t say much on the walk. I’m deep in thought. My intuition is telling me that there’s more to the story than Kingsley’s letting on. As we arrive at the large, open concept office that houses the Auror Corps, I immediately notice something. There are young people working here, but there are also a lot of people who are older than me. Surely there’s someone who’s more suitable amongst these experienced people. At twenty-five, I can’t possibly be the most qualified candidate. Also, I can’t imagine why I’d want to do this. Surely I deserve a quiet life after all the bullshit I went through. Can’t someone else stabilize the world?

There’s an office right in the centre of all of the desks, and the plate on the door says ‘Gawain Robards’. I peer inside with interest. Robards sits at his desk, a pile of parchment in front of him. His jaw is set tightly, and I wonder if he ever unclenches it. He’s holding his quill so firmly that his knuckles are white. I note, with interest, the bags under his eyes, the sea of wrinkles around his mouth. He looks old, worn out, unhappy.

As I follow Kingsley to my desk, I can’t help but wonder, why did old me want this job anyway? My desk is obsessively tidy, with small piles of parchment, tabbed and carefully annotated in tiny writing. It seems incongruous with the type of student that Hermione and Ron described, but clearly I’ve developed new habits. I find the file about the potions smugglers easily, and I ask Kingsley if someone can owl it to my house. I don’t want to go home yet, but I’m a bit at loose ends.


	3. Chapter 3

I end up at Diagon again, because, frankly, I don’t really _know_ anywhere else, other than Ron and Hermione’s, and I assume they’re at work. As I stroll down the street, there’s a bit of fuss, people clamouring and coming up to me and whatnot. I smile, and shake a few hands, pleasantly refuse to sign anything, and soon enough, the crowd dissipates. There’s a big bookshop, and that consumes an hour. The saleslady is kind enough to shrink my books for me, and I place the tiny bag in my pocket, wondering how I’ll get them big again. It’s still better than having my arms full.

I don’t fancy any more ice cream, but there’s no other shop I remember. My eyes light on the big bank again, and I remember. Draco Malfoy. Smiling to myself, I enter the bank. The Goblin guarding the doors glares at me, but I smile back at him, and that puts him off his stride for a moment. I slip past, and scan the bank. There’s no sign of that distinctive white blond hair. I head to the Welcome Goblin’s counter, and if ever there was a misnomer, it’s that. The Goblin is the opposite of welcoming. I tell him that I have an urgent matter to discuss with Mister Malfoy. For some reason, this prompts a sharp toothed grin that’s not a little savage. 

Eventually, I’m pointed towards an office door. As I lope over towards it, I realize that I have no reason for seeking Malfoy out. I pop back to the Welcome Counter. “Can you remind me what Mister Malfoy’s area of specialty is?”

“You have an appointment with him, and you don’t know what he does here?”

“I…um…I’ve forgotten.”

He doesn’t believe me, but something Ron said earlier makes me suspect I have rather a lot of gold around here somewhere, so he opts not to investigate whether I even have an appointment, and supplies, grudgingly, that Malfoy is a cursebreaker. Excellent, I can absolutely work with this.

I knock on the door, and hear, “Enter,” barked curtly from the other side. I push the door open, and there he is. He’s looking at me suspiciously though, his dazzling eyes narrowed. “Potter.”

“Hi,” I say, choosing one of the chairs opposite his desk. “You busy?”

“I’m always busy, Potter. What do you want?”

“Can’t I just come to say hello?” The look on his face suggests that, no, coming to say hello is unwelcome. “Alright, fine, I’m here because I need your help with something.”

“Why would I want to help you with anything?” His voice is bored, and he’s lowered his head to resume scrutiny of a shining goblet on his desk, which he pokes with his wand. Still though, there’s something in his tone. He’s curious, if nothing else.

I decide that simply honesty is what’s called for here. “Draco,” I say, and he looks up again, reacting to something in my tone. Good. “Draco, I’ve been cursed.” He visibly brightens at this, and I can’t help the grin that leaps to my face. Pointy little git.

“By whom?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Pity, I’d so love to offer my congratulations.”

“Don’t be that way,” I chide. “I need your help.”

“No you don’t,” he says dismissively. “Get the Weasel and Granger to help you.”

“They are,” I admit, “but I don’t know if they can. I need someone different. Someone who has…specialty skills.” I’m not certain if I was any good at flirting before, but the way his eyes widen slightly suggest that I’m a bit better at it these days. Or, perhaps I’m just so eager to shag him that I’m unable to keep my tone free of innuendo.

He purses his lips slightly, regarding me with suspicion. I want to kiss him. I want to _ruin_ him. An intriguing little blush colours his cheeks and my smile widens. “Come on, Draco,” I say, “I’d owe you a favour.”

“What is wrong with you?” His face is pinker now, but something tells me that it’s no longer any suggestion of attraction. “Why are you doing this?”

“Let me take you to dinner,” I say, “and I’ll answer any question you have. If, after that, you still don’t want to help me, I’ll leave you alone, no foul.”

“And if I refuse?”

I wink at him. “I seem to have a lot of free time on my hands, and Gringott’s is one of about four places I know how to find.”

He blinks at me a bit, and then huffs in annoyance. “Fine. Seven tonight. I’ll owl you the address.”

Pleased, I feel my grin stretch wider. “See you then, Draco.”

As I leave the bank, a spring in my step, I recall that my closet is woefully unprepared to woo someone as fancy as Draco. Fortunately, the salesgirl at Twilfitt and Tattings delightedly assures me that she can help me out.

“I’ll admit,” I say, “my wardrobe is a bit lacking, and I don’t really know what’s fashionable. Do you think you could help me with everything I need?”

Her face is stunned. “Well, of course I can, Mister Potter.” She looks at me strangely. “This seems a bit out of character, if I might say. The last time you were here, Miss Granger had to drag you, and you refused to try anything on. Then you got into a terrible argument and stormed away.”

“I think I used to be a bit of an arsehole,” I confess.

She laughs. “As long as you aren’t one today, it doesn’t matter.” Her face softens. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an arsehole. In this job, I see a lot of people, and I’ve gotten really good at reading them. You’ve always struck me as the sort of person who doesn’t want to be noticed, and when you’re the centre of attention, it’s uncomfortable for you. Maybe you’re the sort of person who feels like he doesn’t deserve nice things.” She shrugs. “But what do I know, eh? Maybe you’re just a prat.”

That makes me laugh. “Alright then, whether I’m a prat or some sort of shy weirdo, let’s take advantage of the fact that I’m not having a temper tantrum and get me kitted out properly. Do you do Muggle clothes as well?”

They do. And it’s a slightly poorer, and much more stylish me that floos home several hours later with an entirely new wardrobe. I survey myself in the mirror and wish that I had time to get a haircut before my date with Draco, but since I don’t, I use a potion I find in my bathroom cabinet to try to make the bird’s nest on my head simmer down a little. After a few experiments, one of which forces me to shower the whole lot off and start over, my hair looks mad, still, but more ‘windswept’ and less ‘pulled backwards through a hedge’.

Draco’s owl had arrived while I was out, and the note I pried from its claws was terse:

_Potter,_

_If you’re still insistent on the insane notion that we can share a meal without hexing one another, I’ll meet you at 7:00 at the Golden Cauldron. Owl me if you’ve come to your senses and we can call this whole stupid thing off._

_DM_

At precisely ten to seven, I arrive at the Golden Cauldron, belatedly realizing that I should have made a reservation. I smile at the host, and say, “I’m an idiot.”

He looks up from his bookings list, and I see that he recognizes me. “Mister Potter, sir. Of course you’re not an…my goodness, it’s wonderful to see you here!”

“Um, thanks? But I didn’t think to owl for a reservation for tonight, and I’m sure you don’t have an available table.”

“We’re fully booked,” he says, his face _heaving_ with distress. “I…let me…I don’t…”

“Never mind, Potter,” a voice from behind me says. “I didn’t for a moment assume that you’d think ahead to book something. Reservation for Malfoy.” He directs the last sentence to the host, who looks so relieved that he won’t have to turn me away that he amps up the fawning as he leads us to the table. He spends a distressingly long time ensuring I’m seated in my chair, and pats the napkin onto my lap with great care, which is embarrassing. Draco watches the production with amusement, his beautiful eyes dancing.

By the time the waiter leaves us alone with the wine menu, I’m blushing. Having managed to keep Draco guessing so far, I’m not off to a terrific start tonight. I regard him from across the table. His robes are more formal than the ones he wore at the bank, and the ice blue colouring flatters him, which, obviously, he’s well aware of. His skin is as pale as cream, and the smug set of his lips distracts me for a moment, until I finally pull myself together and say, “Thanks, Draco, for making the reservation, and for meeting me.”

He shrugs. “Curiosity has always been a weakness of mine.”

I can’t help but spend a delightful moment considering, in lurid detail, what other weaknesses he has, but I pinch myself on the leg, and drag my eyes away from his lips. “Do you want to order the wine? In fact, would you mind ordering for me? I haven’t a clue what I’d like.”

He gets a superior look on his face, and purrs, “Of course. This isn’t the sort of place to get cottage pie.”

I shrug, which has him doing his whole ‘blink at me strangely’ routine. He’s posh, clearly I’m not posh, it just makes good sense to work to our strengths. Hopefully I’ll soon figure out what mine are. He seems to mentally shrug, and then obligingly opens the menu.

The waiter arrives, and he and Draco spend an insane amount of time discussing the menu, and wine pairings, while I look around the room. We have a fairly secluded table, and so I can’t hear any other conversations, but there’s certainly a consistency to the diners. They’re all thin, and beautiful in the way that an expensive horse might be. Nobody seems to be having much fun. Even the people who are laughing are doing so with so little expression on their faces, that it seems forced. Stuffy, in other words.

The waiter _finally_ fucks off, and I smile at Draco, watching him and waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. He instead regards me with such confusion that the smile eventually fades from my face. “You’re looking at me strangely,” I finally say.

“You look different.”

“Good different?”

“I’m not sure.” With such a promising endorsement, I’m not sure how to pivot this to more flirtation, but, of course, the wine waiter arrives, and Malfoy tastes the vintage, pronounces it excellent, and we’re left regarding one another again. “So,” he finally says, “you’ve been cursed.”

“Yeah,” I agree, taking a sip from my glass. “Oh, that wine is nice. I seem to have misplaced a large portion of my memory.”

He looks gobsmacked for a moment, before he smooths his expression. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. I was trying to arrest a potion smuggler, and I was obviously cursed, and knocked unconscious, and when I woke up, I could barely remember anything.”

“Potter, how is it that things like this seem to just happen to you?” The words are a bit derisive, but he obviously finds it funny, and, I hope, charming? As I regard him thoughtfully, I conclude, with regret, maybe not the second thing.

“No idea. I’ve been told I have a certain sort of dumb luck.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “So what?”

“So what what?” I ask, rather stupidly.

“How does this concern me?”

“Oh. Right. It’s simple. I’ve been cursed. You are a curse wrecker. I need you to wreck me.” I watch his eyes dilate at the innuendo, but he schools his expression again.

“Curse breaker,” he corrects, giving me a stern look. “And I can’t imagine that you need anything from me. Surely the Healers at St. Mungo’s and the Unspeakables are working on it?”

“Oh Draco, there is definitely something I need from you,” I purr. He looks distinctly annoyed, and I suspect I’ve gone too far, so I continue, “And actually, it’s strange. Every time I ask about what’s being done to break the curse, people get uncomfortable. They assure me that they’re working on it, but nobody’s talked to me since it happened. I would have thought that the Ministry’s people would be doing mind-reading stuff, or casting spells on me or whatnot, but nothing. They sent me home with Ron and Hermione, and told me that they’ll get in touch when they find something.”

“That is strange,” Draco concedes. “You’re their Great Saviour. I’d expect that you’d have a whole wing of the Ministry cordoned off and full of researchers.”

“Right? That’s what I would have expected too!” In my relief that someone else agrees that this is odd, it takes me a minute to interpret the knowing smirk that has crossed his face. “Oh, stop,” I chide. “Not because I think I’m special or anything, but it just seems strange that one minute, Kingsley is talking about my imminent appointment to Head Auror, which sounds dead boring, for what it’s worth, and then the next minute, he’s brushing off the fact that I’ve forgotten every memory I have, save a few outliers. He’s talking about putting me in intensive remedial training, and nobody seems to care that one spell can rob someone of their whole life!”

The pinched look isn’t on his face anymore, so I continue, once our meals have been placed in front of us. “I’m told that, defensively, I was decent, before all this, but one low-level smuggler was able to completely put me out of commission. What’s to stop them from getting to the Minister, or the entire parliament or something? But somehow, I’m the only person who seems to think about that!”

There’s something awfully close to grudging admiration on his face, and I can’t help but bask in it a little. “That is…surprisingly well reasoned,” he finally says.

I sigh. “Surprisingly? God, Draco, was I a complete idiot? Hermione won’t say, but I think I might have been.” It’s disappointing. I don’t _feel_ stupid, but there’s no evidence to suggest otherwise.

He looks surprised, and then grins. It transforms his face completely, and my insides give an interested little lurch. “No, Potter, not a complete idiot. Just…less inclined to think things through, although I suppose if I were chased by a madman for my formative years, I’d probably see the benefits of quick reactions.”

“So. Impulsive, but not brainless?” That mollifies me a little.

“Not brainless,” he agrees. “Plus, you had Granger. She did all of your thinking for you.”

I feel relief that someone has finally identified why it is that Hermione makes me uncomfortable. “Yes, I can see that. She seems awfully put out when I disagree with her. Don’t get me wrong, she and Ron have been great, but Hermione especially, acts almost…parental. And then when I have a different opinion, she seems insulted.”

“Is she helping with your memory loss?”

“Sort of. They’ve given me an overview of my life story, and she talked about helping me learn spells, and cope with the big gaping hole where my brain was, but she doesn’t seem as interested in helping me just…get it back.”

He seems to have lost most of the prickly formality that he was wearing like a cloak. Emboldened, I continue, “So that’s where you come in. I want your help in removing the curse, Draco.”

“It’s so weird hearing you say my first name,” he says.

“Weird bad?”

He regards me for a very long time, searching my face for something. Finally, he says, “Not weird bad.” It isn’t much to go on, but it’s a start.

“So will you help me?”

“Why should I? We aren’t friends, and this will take a lot of time. Besides, if something goes wrong and I turn your brain to mush, I can’t begin to imagine how much trouble I’d be in.”

“I could pay you.”

“You could pay any curse breaker. Why me?”

“Why not you? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know why?”

“Not nearly curious enough to invest this much energy.”

“Alright then,” I say, and then something occurs to me. “Draco, from what I’ve been told, you and your family have had some…image challenges since the war ended.” It’s the politest way I can find to say that people seem to hate him, and the look on his face confirms that I’ve not done a terrific job at it. No way out but through, I decide, and continue. “Wouldn’t it do your reputation good to be seen as someone who righted a wrong? And seeing the way that people seem to pay attention to me, I can’t imagine that it would hurt you any.”

He looks impressed. “Well done, Potter. It seems that losing your memory has made you a bit more Slytherin.”

“Slytherin, that’s the Hogwarts House, right? The ones who are smart and ambitious?”

“Or evil and calculating, depending on who you ask.”

I shrug. “Seems weird to define people based on how they were in school. I wouldn’t imagine that you haven’t changed any, or grown, or learned new ways of looking at stuff.”

“I don’t know how to take you, new Potter,” he looks discomforted. 

“Take me however you’d like,” I purr, and his face becomes stony.

“Let’s start with that, Potter. Why are you doing that?”

“What? Flirting with you? It’s really simple. I think you’re hot.”

Shit, he’s abruptly, poshly, furious now. “Who told you about my sexual orientation, and how dare you make it into some sort of joke?”

Oh shit. Come on brain, think of something. “Jeez, Draco, no! I’m not joking about it, I swear. I know that you’re not entirely straight because you seemed to like it when I licked your neck at a gay club not a week ago. And I’m not making fun of it, because _I licked your neck at a gay club not a week ago_.”

“Shut up,” he hisses, in a furious whisper. “This is not the venue to discuss things like this!”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Honestly. I swear to you, Draco, even if I wasn’t attracted to you, I’d never make fun of you for something that’s just how you are. It’s a ridiculous thing to make fun of.” I keep my voice quiet, and try really hard to let the sincerity bleed through.

“Oh, yes of course, and then you go home and you and your girlfriend laugh at me. So funny, let’s humiliate the poof, the _abomination_ -” he stops abruptly, and there are circles of bright red on his cheeks.

“Oh, Christ, Draco, I really am terrible at this, but in my defence, I don’t have a lot of experience with…well, anything, I suppose. Look, can we just pay the bill, and then take a walk somewhere, where I can just talk to you? I don’t want to embarrass you, and I am clearly saying the wrong things in front of these horse-people.” 

He makes a face as I stop talking, and I realize that the horse thing is out of context for him. Plus, he’s mad at me, and defensive or something, and, I guess, has hangups. For a terrible moment, it seems that he’s going to jump to his feet and run away, and I sit completely still, as though any sudden movement will spur him into action. ( _Like a skittish horse_ , my brain supplies joyfully, and I desperately, furiously, command it to shut UP about the fucking horses. He’s…hopeful, or something, though, and I sense there’s a part of him that sort of wants to believe that I’m not making fun of him. But it’s clearly a huge gamble. I calmly look him straight in the eyes, and wait for his answer.

“Alright, Potter, but if you’re setting me up, losing your memories is going to be the least of your worries.”

“I promise I’m not.”

I pay the bill as quickly as I can, after the waiter fusses at me some more, fumbling with the coins to add up to the right amount, and eventually just tossing a whole heap of the gold ones on the table. Draco leads me to a park, not far from the restaurant. “I’m so sorry,” I say, as soon as it’s clear that we’re alone. “I would never make fun of you like that, but something tells me that you don’t have any reason to trust me. I thought you would, but that was my mistake. I guess we have more history than I thought.” I chance a look out of the corner of my eye, and there’s that tentative hopefulness again. 

“Draco, I’m not with Ginny anymore. I’m gay. Of course you wouldn’t have known that, and I can see how this would have seemed like some sort of elaborate setup, but it’s not. I can’t tell you why I was so closeted before, but…I have no interest in hiding who I am. Not anymore. I just want a nice life.”

“Merlin, Potter.”

“Yeah. I think I might have been…or still am, I don’t know how it works…a bit fucked up.”

He snorts a laugh at that, and I grin over at him, before continuing, “So, yeah, you’re all caught up. Ginny and I broke up with minimal fuss, because having a gay boyfriend isn’t good for anyone, unless that anyone is another gay man. I’m cursed, and I don’t remember anything about you, other than how hard you made me when you were grinding on me at the club. Nobody seems to give a fuck that I’m cursed, except me, and I’d like you to help me break it.”

“Potter, that’s…”

“A lot, I know. I imagine that you’d like to think about it some. It’s entirely clear that _you_ don’t forget everything that’s happened between us. In the meantime, though, I’d really, really like to kiss you properly. May I?”

I move a little closer, and the most delicious whimper escapes Draco’s slightly parted lips. His eyes are wide, and riveted on mine. “May I?” I repeat, and he nods slightly. I start gently, just the slightest press of lips, my hand working its way into his hair. His eyes fall closed, and I trace the seam of his mouth with my tongue. As it opens for me, and I press my tongue inside, his arms wrap around my waist, pulling us closer. He tastes delicious, and the friction of our tongues against one another is intoxicating. I don’t notice time passing, but as his hands slip down to my arse, and he pulls us closer, I feel his cock, hard against mine. Lust practically consumes me, but I don’t want to fuck him in a public park. Not the first time, anyway. Reluctantly, I pull away.

“Thank you,” I say softly. His eyes are glazed, his pupils so enormous that I can barely see the grey of his iris. “That was wonderful. I’ve given you a lot to think about, I know, and if I keep kissing you, I’m going to get carried away, embarrass myself. So I think I’ll say goodnight for now, and await your owl with your decision. Is that alright?”

He nods, and I place another kiss, butterfly soft, on his kiss-bruised lips. “Goodnight, Draco.” I smile at him, and then twist on my heel and apparate home.


	4. Chapter 4

I make it until noon the next day before the walls start feeling like they’re closing in on me. I’d already had a leisurely wank in the shower, during which I pictured Draco’s long slim fingers in place of my own. I clean the flat, I practice magic from the first-year spell book that Hermione had provided, but there are a ton of spells that are, frankly, ridiculous. Why would I want to turn a rat into a goblet? It can’t be sanitary to drink from. 

I consider sending Draco an owl, but realize that: a) I had no owl and b) I’d left things in Draco’s hands. So, I consider going for a run, but, having just showered, I have no desire to do the whole thing over again. I’m bored, and there’s nothing to do in this stupid flat. This isn’t exactly what I imagined when I woke up in a hospital bed and learned I was a wizard. Finally, I put on a pair of new denims and a bottle green jumper and find a butter soft leather motorcycle jacket in the front hall. As I slip it on, I’m immediately suffused with a sense of comfort and wellbeing. It can’t be a coincidence that it was the only not-foul piece in my wardrobe from before. This is a good jacket.

A few minutes later, I’m back on Diagon, wandering around aimlessly. Only…none of the shops peak my interest. I have a broomstick that I’m afraid to use, and I don’t think I need a cauldron, since Hermione just laughed when I asked for a potions textbook. I wander the aisles of the magical menagerie, but I can barely take care of myself, let alone a pet, and so, with no other destination standing out, I’m back in the lineup at Fortesque’s.

The same girl is behind the counter. “Louise, right?” I say, as she smiles in welcome.

“You remembered!”

“Of course! It doesn’t pay to alienate the girl who doles out ice creams. Especially since you’ve been here both times. Do you live behind that counter?”

She grins. “You’d think so. This is my parent’s shop. I’m the eighth generation of Fortesque to work here.”

“That’s amazing! Is it as fun as it looks?”

“Most days,” she says. “We all hate when August comes, because everyone gets their Hogwarts letters, and then the lineup is down the street. It’s hard though. Being a family-owned business, we’re pretty much always here.”

“I imagine you get all the ice cream you want, though.”

“True. And we get to taste the new flavours first. In fact,” she glances at the line behind me, and then turns around to holler “Papa!”

An older man bustles out from the back room. “Yes, my treasure?” He suddenly spies me, and says, “Mister Potter!”

“Hello, sir,” I say. “Your daughter has been sharing all your trade secrets with me.”

“Dreadful girl, keep meaning to fire her,” he replies, his proud smile completely contradicting his words.

“Papa, I was hoping that I could take Harry into the back room, and let him try the newest flavour.”

“Of course, darling. Mister Potter has been a loyal customer since he was a lad. I’ll just take over here, then, will I?”

Louise grins and opens the gate beside the counter for me to enter. She leads me back into a large industrial kitchen. “Mama, do you know Harry?”

There’s a tired-looking woman standing in front of an enormous mixer, adding a giant vat of cream. “Mister Potter! It’s nice to see you!”

“Hello, ma’am. I’m afraid I’ve had some spell damage that’s affecting my memory, so I apologize if we’ve met before.”

“Oh, you poor dear. I have just the thing. Sit, sit.” She bustles us to a nearby kitchen table, which is covered with papers, and a teapot. We sit down, and Mrs. Fortesque brings two dishes of ice cream. “It’s called ‘Cheerful Cherry,’” she says. “It has a mild cheering potion in it.”

“Mama, you look tired, please, can’t you sit for a moment?”

“In a bit, love.”

“My mum never sits down. We all nag her about it, but she never stops, morning to night.” Louise confides. 

“It’s wonderful here,” I say. “I can see how hard you all work, but it’s nice here. Comfortable. You’re lucky.”

“We are,” she says. “I would have liked to have gone to Uni, but that’s impossible. There’s too much work here, and we’d never be able to afford to pay someone a living wage.” Her smile is a little wistful. “Unless you know someone who will work for ice cream.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” I promise her.

The next morning, I figure I’d better return the file to the Ministry. Kingsley had made me promise that I wouldn’t allow evidence to remain outside the department for long, and, honestly? There’s nothing there that gives me any lead on why this happened, or how to fix it. Maybe my old self was better at drawing conclusions, but new me doesn't seem to be any good at it.

I find my way to my desk after a confusing wander of a floor that seems to contain nothing but identical offices, and when I finally arrive in the Auror pod, Mill is sitting in the desk opposite mine. “Hey!” I’m glad to see her. I want to ask her whether I actually like my job or not. When she looks up, her eyes are red rimmed. “Mill? You okay?”

“Not here,” she says. I take her arm, and lead her to the lifts. We end up in the cafeteria, and she casts a privacy spell. “It’s Pansy,” she says. “They’ve arrested her for breach of probation.”

“Oh dear,” I say lamely, but if nothing else, my non-answer helps her to remember that I don’t have the backstory. So she supplies it: Pansy Parkinson was a Slytherin, like Mill, but unlike her, hadn’t belonged to a neutral family. Her parents were convicted Death Eaters, and after the war, Pansy, as well as a number of others, had been vilified by society for their actions during the war, which were deemed ‘bad, but not Azkaban bad’. Finding a job had been difficult, and they’d all been placed on indefinite probation, which required them to check in with a probation officer monthly. It had been especially difficult for Pansy, who had ‘shouted out something unfortunate’ during the final battle. I’m desperately curious to know what sort of thing would be off limits to yell out during a war, but Mill moves on before I can ask.

The probation checks, according to Mill, are a farce. Those who have been appointed as officers are Muggleborn, or Halfblood, and some have axes to grind. It had been a vicious cycle, with the children of Death Eaters unable to find legitimate work, and then forced to make ends meet in any way possible. Pansy had been arrested when she’d been caught soliciting.

“What will happen?” I ask. 

“Azkaban, likely. Because she’s on probation, she won’t receive a trial. Her sentence is administered by her probation officer.”

“Well that’s no good.”

“Yeah. She’s screwed. One of our friends, Blaise, left England as soon as the war ended, and became a solicitor in Italy. He’s been trying to get back to try to do something to mount a defense, but his portkey applications keep getting lost or misfiled.”

“How many others are there?”

“From our year, about a dozen. Well. There were a dozen. A few have left the country. One died. Including Pansy, there are seven Slytherins our age who are still on probation.”

“How did Draco Malfoy escape this? From what I hear, he was one of only a few students who took the Dark Mark.”

Mill looks uncomfortable. “You spoke at his trial. Draco and his Mother both acted against the Dark Lord, and your testimony persuaded the Wizengamot to exonerate them.”

“But why didn’t I speak for the others?”

“Harry,” Mill smiles at me, and it’s a sad one, one that doesn’t transform her face like it usually does. “I don’t think that you get just how cruel Slytherin House was. To Gryffindors, and to any Muggleborn student. To you, especially. We were part of an organization intended to spy on the other houses during fifth year, and in our seventh year, Death Eaters were in control of the school. They used students to administer discipline.”

“What sort of discipline?” I think I can imagine the answer, but I ask anyway

“The Cruciatus curse. It feels as though your nerves are being burned from the inside out. It’s an Unforgivable curse.”

“And the Death Eaters made you administer them to students?” 

“Some of us were unable to muster up the hatred required to make it work. Me. Zabini. The Greengrass sisters. The rest of Slytherin House? I don’t know how many actually liked doing it, but they gave the appearance that they did.”

“But you were children!”

“Harry, we were technically adults, most of us. And besides, everyone in Slytherin House hated you. Some of us had been fed so much bullshit by our parents, that you were set up as an enemy long before we started at Hogwarts. The rest of us were annoyed that Dumbledore turned a blind eye when you blatantly broke the rules. And then when the Dark Lord returned, there were a lot of students who believed in him, followed him loyally. If you’d been there, in seventh year, they wouldn’t have hesitated to torture you.”

“That’s messed up. I’m surprised old me didn’t do more to help.”

“You did, though,” Mill says. “Last year, when Pansy first came to me, and asked for help, I talked to you about it. You went straight to Shacklebolt, and he assured you that the probation officers were monitored, supervised by the Auror Department.”

“And, like the good little Ministry puppet, I believed him,” I said.

“He was a member of your Order of the Phoenix, Harry. You fought next to him in the war. It’s only natural that you’d want to believe him. And then, more recently, you came to me, said that you wanted to help. We’ve been investigating the Auror office and the Probation and Rehabilitation office in secret.”

“And what have we found?”

Mill looks around with a truly apprehensive gaze. “We can’t talk here, Harry. Even if my spell is strong, I don’t know if there are listening spells in the Ministry that can override it. It’s not safe.”

“Alright. What time does your shift end?”

“Six.”

“Come by mine, then? We can talk further.”

“I have to pick up Violet.”

“Oh, is that your girlfriend?”

Mill laughs. “No, my daughter. This memory loss thing takes some getting used to.”

“You’re telling me. Bring Violet along then. We’ll sort out dinner, and she can play with Kreacher or something.”

“Alright. I guess if anyone asks, I can say that we’re trying to help you remember things.”

“Oh. Are we not friends? I got the impression that we were.”

Mill sighs. “It’s not that. It just isn’t easy. Your lot doesn’t really like anyone who was in Slytherin House, and so we don’t really socialize outside work. It’s just too awkward.”

“That’s mad, though. It was years ago.”

“People have long memories.”

I laugh. “I don’t. It doesn’t matter to me, really, but if you want help, I can try.”

She is looking at me strangely, and I really wonder why so many people keep giving me that look. “I guess that answers the age-old question, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always thought that you were a product of your past. Your shit childhood, and Dumbledore’s manipulation. I thought they’d raised you to be self-sacrificing. You’re different now, but not completely different. It seems like some things are just how you are.”

“No idea. Now come with me to return this stupid file, and then I can get out of here.”

Returning the file was easy, although the fellow in the Auror Administration Office gives me the willies. He watches me with a hungry, acquisitive air. I purposely keep the small talk small, and Mill and I escape painlessly. As I say goodbye to her, it occurs to me that this society is completely fucked up. I might be better off just going and living in some cabin in the woods somewhere.

We part at the lifts, and when I arrive home, I look at the pantry and the cold cupboard, dismayed, as I realize that I don’t actually remember how to cook anything. Unsure how this sort of thing works, I feel like an immense prat as I say to the empty kitchen, “Er…Kreacher?” 

The little fellow appears right away, looking a bit too earnest for my liking. “Master Harry called his good house elf?”

“I did. I’m having a lady and a little girl over for dinner, and I seem to have forgotten how to cook.”

His bulbous eyes light up, and I swear he’s crying a bit. “Master Harry is no longer with the Blood Traitor? And he wants Kreacher to cook for his date! And Master Harry will have a child for poor old Kreacher to take care of!”

“Well, it’s not a date, really, but essentially, those things are true.”

“Kreacher is understanding. Kreacher will be creating the most romantic dinner, and Master Harry can woo his new paramour.”

“Kreacher! No! It’s Mill, my partner at work. I don’t really fancy girls that way.”

“Oh,” Kreacher looks impressed, and I’m confused again as he continues, “Master Harry has given up on clinging to his denial.”

“Yup,” I respond, and really, if my house elf knew that I was gay, why didn’t my two best friends?

I squeeze in a nap before Mill is set to arrive, and I’m just struggling back into my denims when I hear the floo. Kreacher, who spent nearly an hour earlier trying to convince me to move back to ‘Master’s proper home’, greets her, and I hear a bright little voice demand, “Where is he? I want to see the scar.”

“Here,” I say, coming into the lounge, where I spot a little girl, looking around imperiously. She has Mill’s red hair, and is a sturdy little thing. Her eyes are a stunning shade of blue, and she wears thick glasses that keep sliding down her nose.

“Hello,” she says. “Don’t worry. Mummy told me that you’ve forgotten everything useful. I’m here to help.”

“Thank heavens,” I say, charmed. “Quick, tell me three useful things.”

“My name is Violet, which I think is kind of stupid. I’m seven years old, and Mommy says you’re too nice for your own good.”

I laugh. “Am I? Can you help me change that?”

“Of course!”

“Vi, leave Harry be for a second. I’ve brought your notebooks. Maybe you can make a list of useful things for Harry.”

This is deemed acceptable, and she curls up on my windowsill with her notebook and a quill. “She’s awesome,” I confide in a low voice to Mill.

“Yeah, she is. And exhausting, and a pain in the backside.” 

It’s clear that Mill has had a bit of a _day_ , and I’m just pouring a bottle of ale into a glass for her when Violet shouts, “There’s an owl.”

I’m about to open the window when Violet screeches, “Wait!” My arm skids off the windowsill and I look at her in alarm. “You didn’t cast the spells.”

“Oh no. There are owl spells? Have I been hurting them this whole time?” I look at Mill, asking with my eyes for her to fix this.

“Vi, it’s fine. Harry has wards, remember?” I must be still looking panicked, because she assures me, “At our house, we have to check the owls for hexes and jinxes before we let them in.”

“And Howlers!” Violet adds.

“Why don’t you have wards?”

Mill looks a bit embarrassed. “Wards aren’t cheap, Harry. By the time I pay for Vi’s preschool, we’re just getting by.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a bit awkward. “Does Violet’s dad not help out?”

Her face darkens. “Vi’s Dad was a Death Eater. He was captured and killed before Violet was born. And we weren’t together.”

“Mill, that’s…”

“I was stupid, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Stumbled upon a Death Eater who had escaped after the final battle, and bore a bit of a grudge for my family’s neutrality.” She lifts her chin. “I don’t regret it, though, not for a single second.”

“I get that. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Anyways, shouldn’t you check your owl?”

I should, and I do. It’s clear that Mill needs the attention diverted from her for a moment anyway. The owl is from Draco, and I can’t quell the anticipatory lust I feel from seeing his name written at the bottom of the parchment.

It’s brief:

_Potter,  
I think this is mad. I think that you’re mad. I can’t promise I’ll be able to help you, but I’m not refusing, not yet. Open your wards to me tomorrow night at 7 and we’ll discuss._

_DM_

I can feel how big the smile on my face is, and Mill is watching me with interest. “Draco’s going to help me get my memory back. I think. Well, he hasn’t said no yet.” She gets the same look that everyone else gets, every time Draco’s name is mentioned. “What’s that face mean?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just that you and Draco weren’t really chummy in school.”

“Well, I don’t remember that, do I? There’s something about him, though. It’s like I can’t look away.”

“It’s sixth year all over again. You two never can leave well enough alone.”

I shrug. “I’m hoping to make that work for me. Unless you know of a way to have him fall down in adoration at my feet.”

Kreacher interrupts before Mill can even begin to respond, so we settle ourselves at the table and eat while we talk. Violet is enchanted with Kreacher, who parks himself next to her, chattering away, and giving me the odd guilty glance. “Kreacher,” I finally say, “are you giving me looks because you think you’re breaking the rules by hanging out with Violet?”

“Kreacher has work to be doing,” he mutters.

“This is work too, Kreacher. You’re helping make Violet feel welcomed, and letting Mill and I talk. You’re fine, okay?”

He looks thrilled at that, and I may not ever understand house elves. It seems strange that these little indentured servants would be so desperate to serve, and guilty when they indulge themselves. In their position, I can’t imagine being so self-sacrificing. And yet…he cooks amazing dinners, so if I escape to my cabin in the woods, he can come along.

Finally, Mill says, “So, we have long suspected that there are certain probation officers who are prejudiced against Slytherin House and specifically, Pureblooded children of Death Eaters, even though there are a whole bunch of people who didn’t really do anything wrong in the war but are still targeted. Just about every Dark, Pureblooded family has at least a few members who are on probation with flimsy excuses.” I wrinkle my nose at that, but she continues.

“Once Kingsley reassured you that there was a body who was responsible for their conduct, I looked into it further. The Probation and Rehabilitation department has four full-time staff members, one of whom is the Team Lead. His name is Dennis Creevy. Gryffindor, lost a brother in the battle. Creevy reports directly to Gawain Robards, but unofficially, Zach Smith reviews and signs off on his reports, with Robards rubber-stamping them afterwards. Creepy doesn’t seem to do much of anything, as far as I can tell.”

“Smith is that creepy bloke we saw today, right?”

“Yeah, Auror Administrator, and general all ‘round twat. He couldn’t cut it in the Auror squad, so he bought himself his job. But he’s the slipperiest of slippery bastards. Very ‘by the book.’ It’s impossible to prove that he’s breaking the law, and the current bias against Dark families means that nobody would care about the way they’re being treated.”

“So if we were to, say, take Pansy’s story to the press…”

“Nobody would care. _Especially_ if it were Pansy. Besides, her privacy is the last piece of dignity that she has left.”

“Can’t you get her a solicitor that’s already in England? If your mate can’t seem to get home to help her?”

“I don’t think you understand how unwilling people are to help her.”

“I wonder,” I say, going to the floo and calling to the Granger-Weasleys. “Hermione, you’re a solicitor, right?”

She’s wearing a dressing gown, and her hair is wet. “Harry!”

“Hi,” I say. “You said you were a solicitor, yeah?”

“I’m fine, Harry, thanks,” she grumps, and I manage not to roll my eyes. “Yes, I have a law degree, but I’m still finishing my articling.”

“But you know enough to go and throw your weight around, disrupt an unjust arrest?”

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“Lookit, can you just come through for a minute?”

She frowns. “I’ll need ten minutes. And I’ll have to bring Rose.”

“That’s fine. Kreacher will be thrilled. Speaking of, how come you didn’t tell me I had a house elf?”

“Oh Lord, Kreacher is there?”

“Yeah, he terrified me awake the other day.”

“Sorry, Harry, he normally stays at Grimmauld.”

“’s fine. He’s playing with Violet.”

Hermione comes through in eight minutes, not ten, and Rose is thrilled to be introduced to Violet. The two of them scamper off, Kreacher slinking after them, secretly delighted, but acting as though he’s shouldering an enormous burden.

“Bullistrode,” Hermione says evenly, and it’s the closest I’ve seen to her being rude.

“Granger.”

“Listen, Hermione, did you know that some of the Death Eater’s kids were still on probation? And that they’re getting persecuted by their Probation officers?”

“No,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. “I can’t say I’m shocked, though. There has been a lot of ill will towards anyone affiliated with Voldemort and his lot, since the War ended.”

I say, “It sounds like it’s basically anyone who was considered Dark, though, not just Voldemort followers. Their names are mud, so they can’t find employment, then, when they’re desperate, and turn to misdemeanour to make ends meet, they get punished. There’s one girl right now, and her solicitor can’t get into the country to help. Based on what you told me about your advocacy work for Werewolves after the war, I thought you’d be interested in helping out.”

“Who is it?”

“Pansy something,” I say. “So do you want to go be terrifying at someone?”

“Pansy Parkinson?” Mill nods. Hermione looks at me strangely. “You want me to help Pansy Parkinson?”

“I dunno. I thought that you’d be interested.”

“Harry, she tried to hand you over to Voldemort on the night of the battle!”

“But wasn’t I going there anyway?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Oh,” I say, realizing that I’ve just made the situation way more awkward. That will teach me to get involved in stuff that’s none of my business. Cabin in the woods is starting to look like a smarter option all the while. “It’s fine,” I backpedal. “Sorry to bother you.”

The look she gives me is pained. “Harry-”

“No, I get it. I don’t understand, I don’t have the same memories that you do. It wasn’t fair of me to expect you to help. Thanks for coming, though.”

She calls Rose, gathers the floo powder and stands facing the flames for a moment. Mill has remained silent through the exchange, and I glance at her. Her face is tight, her expression completely closed off. Just before Hermione throws the powder, she says, “I’ll make some inquiries.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” But she’s gone, her and Rose whirling away in the flames without a response.

I’m watching Kreacher tidy the dishes off the table when something that’s been niggling at me comes to mind. “You don’t suppose that someone did this to me?”

“Huh?” Mill is tying Violet’s shoes, preparing to leave.

“Do you think that someone took my memories on purpose?”

“Well, yeah.”

“No, but I mean, like, unrelated to the potions smuggling thing. Do you think I was set up?”

“Why would someone set you up?”

“Well, it’s just weirdly convenient. Anonymous tip, the wards kick everyone but me out, I remember oddly specific things. What if I’d figured something out? About the Slytherins, and the probation.”

“That’s pretty far-fetched, Harry.”

“Yeah, probably. Just seems weird that the potions smugglers have disappeared without a trace now.”

Mill shrugs, and gives me one of those smiles that makes me feel like it’s going to be okay, that _I’m_ going to be okay.

The next night, at seven precisely, Draco Malfoy steps through my floo, looking like a model. He’s wearing tight denims, and a blue sweater that makes his eyes look more beautiful than normal. His hair is still damp from his shower, and as he tosses the long part at the front out of his eyes, I catch a whiff of his shampoo. My knees get weak, and I want to bite him.

“Potter.”

“Draco,” I know my smile is flirtatious, but I’m going to push until he makes me stop. “You look good. Did you dress up for me?”

He laughs. “We don’t all dress like we’re homeless, Potter.” He looks me up and down. “Although, it seems that someone finally taught you how to buy clothing that fits you.”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “Not sure why old me wore everything so big.”

Kreacher, who nearly wept when he found out that Draco was coming over, appears with two glasses of dark liquid. “Master Malfoy, Kreacher wishes that he could be welcoming the true Black heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Black, but it is still being an honour to see you here.”

“True Black Heir?” I ask.

Kreacher gives me a sly look. “Master Malfoy is the daughter of Narcissa, and is the last remaining relative in the Black bloodline. Were it not for the filthy traitor, Master Malfoy would have been inheriting Grimmauld Place and the Black family fortune.”

“Oh,” I say blithely. “Sorry for stealing your inheritance, Draco. Can I offer you, what I'm positive is an old spooky house and an elf who makes excellent breakfasts?”

He looks at me strangely for a moment, and then grins. “I already have an old house, and a pile of mad house elves. I couldn’t possibly have another.”

“Sorry Kreacher,” I say, “keep being your sweet self, and I’m sure he’ll come around.” To be honest, I’m not entirely sure who Kreacher means by the traitor, but it’s either me or my late Godfather.

Kreacher stalks off to sulkily bang pots and pans in the kitchen. “Dinner won’t be long,” I say. “Want to sit?”

Once we’re settled with our drinks, Draco says, “I’ve been thinking about your memory loss, and I think we need to confirm whether the memories have been removed, or just blocked.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I’ve finished my drink, and I toy with one of the ice cubes that’s left over.

“In order to do so, I’d like to cast a spell that will allow me to enter your mind and view your memories,” he continues, looking defensive, as though I’m going to get offended.

“Yup, cool,” I say, popping the ice cube into my mouth.

“Cool? You’re going to just let me wander around in your mind?”

“Why not? If I ask for your help, I can’t very well tell you how to go about it, can I?”

“Merlin, Potter, I hope you’re not this trusting of everyone. Can I do so now?” I shrug again, and he positions me in one of the big armchairs, kneeling in front of me so that our eyes are level. “Legilimens,” he intones. His eyes are locked on mine, and they’re so pretty, and his position, kneeling in front of me, causes me to imagine those red lips put to use.

I stifle a groan, but luxuriate in the imagined sensation, his tongue swirling around the length of my cock, the way he sucks hard and the feel of the head pressing against his soft palate. I imagine those grey eyes looking up at me, his slim, clever fingers caressing my balls, whispering along my perineum, ghosting across my hole. That’s when I realize that there’s another presence in my mind, watching alongside me. I picture myself gripping that soft blond hair, pulling just enough to keep him present. He pulls out of my mind abruptly, reeling back physically, and sitting on his haunches.

“Potter, what the fuck?”

“Sorry,” I say, but I’m smirking. “Got distracted.” I’m intrigued to see that he’s panting, the heavy breaths causing his chest to rise and fall beneath his jumper. My eye, inexorably, travels down to his crotch, where I confirm the evidence that he’s not unaffected by my little fantasy.

“You’re very distracting, Draco,” I continue, sliding off the chair and onto my knees, facing him. “I can’t stop picturing all of the things I’d like that beautiful mouth to do.” I lean a little closer, and his pupils dilate. “Can’t stop thinking of how much I want to taste you, lick you, suck you.” I bring my hand to his cheek, stroke it gently. “Want to take you to my bed, worship every inch of you, sink down onto your cock, ride you, let you fill me up.” I have no idea where these filthy words are coming from, but I simply thank whatever gods are providing me with this inspiration. 

Where, just a minute ago, he was panting, now it seems like he’s barely breathing. I move my hand to the back of his neck, my thumb stroking gently. “Draco, will you fuck me? Please?”

He stares at me for a long, long moment, his eyes scanning my face, his mind working fast. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. “Bed,” he says hoarsely.

“Yeah,” I whisper, and stand, pulling him to his feet, and leading him by the hand to my room. The minute we cross the threshold, he pulls my white t-shirt over my head, and his hands move to my belt. I let him remove it, unbutton my denims and pull them off, along with my pants. he seems to like the way I look naked and I want to say something cool and suave like I did before, but words fail me. I gesture to his shirt. He nods, and I say, “Lie down for me, beautiful.”

I lay him onto the bed, gently, and ruck his jumper up over his ribs, revealing a taut, flat stomach, with just a smattering of dark blond hair leading to his waistband. I pepper gentle, open mouthed kisses on his ribs, plunge my tongue into his belly button, push his jumper up higher and suck one of his pink nipples. My tongue dances across his clavicle, and, desperate for better access to more skin, I pull his jumper up, over his head. Draco’s arms lift above him and he helps me to remove his shirt. For a moment, I simply kneel beside him, looking at his pale, beautiful torso laid out for me like a feast. “You’re exquisite,” I whisper, and he shudders, his wide grey eyes locked to mine. 

I sort of figured I would, but it turns out, I really like sex. It provides an immediacy of feedback that’s so much less confusing than everything else. I figure that old me must have watched a lot of porn, because I instinctively know what to do. My hands are confident and sure, and all I have to do is trust myself. It’s brilliant.

I bend over him, my hands skirting down his sides, as I lick the side of his neck, suck on his earlobe. “I want to taste you,” I breathe into his ear, my breath hot. It takes no time to kiss and suck my way back down his body, unbuckling his belt and popping the buttons of his denims. As I peel open the placket, his cock is hard, the head peeking over the waistband of his pants. I can’t help but lap at the precome at his slit, and when I prod with my tongue, he whimpers. I don’t have to tell him to lift his hips, and I peel his jeans down to his thighs. The room is quiet, and I can hear him panting, his breath roaring out of his chest. I feel powerful, and, for the first time since all this stupidness began, like I’m in control of what’s going on. 

I bury my face into the crease between his leg and groin, and lick, taste the sweat, feel the velvet soft skin under my tongue. Leaving his pants on, I mouth at his cock, his balls, through the fabric. Gently, I tease one finger underneath the leghole of his pants, stroking his soft skin. “Harry,” he says urgently. “Let me touch you.”

“Soon,” I soothe. “Need to taste you.” My hands hesitate at the waistband of his pants, but when I look into his eyes, he nods frantically, and so I strip them off, pulling them, and his jeans, off his legs and casting them aside. Now that he lies here, naked in front of me, I experience a momentary setback as I realize that I’ve probably never done this. Regardless, mouth on cock seems like a start. He’s big, and I can’t imagine fitting all of him inside my mouth, but I really, really want to try. I take him in my hand, mouth along the length. He hisses, and I feel his hand in my hair. I wrap my mouth around the tip of his cock, guarding my teeth, and allowing my tongue to mould around as much of him as I can. He clamours to a kneeling position, his hand running down my back, cupping my arse.

It’s a mess, really, hot, and wet, I’m covering him with my saliva, my hand instinctively surrounding the lower part of his cock, because I can’t seem to take the whole length of him without gagging. I need to work on my technique. I bob my head experimentally, and when I taste his precome on my tongue, I can’t help but groan. This prompts one in return from him, and so I deduce that I’m doing something right. I need his mouth again. I come up on my knees, kiss him filthily, our tongues plunging into each others’ mouths. 

I keep my stroke on his cock steady, my other hand surrounds his balls, pulling a little, in a way that I know I like. He groans, and his breath comes faster. He pulls away from my kiss, long enough to say, “Get on your hands and knees, Harry.”

I like the way he says my name. I flip over to all fours, and feel his hot, wet mouth kiss down my spine. His hands cup my arse cheeks, and gently pull them apart. His sound of delight makes me thrill inside, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel when he buries his face between my cheeks and licks me. In my eagerness to feel more of that, my shoulders sink to the bed, and my hips instinctively rock backwards and forwards, the counterpoint of friction against the sheets and tongue on my arse makes me fear for my sanity. When his mouth sucks at my hole, my vision goes blurry, and I think I might expire, but I manage to just groan instead, and lose myself in the sensation. His torso suddenly is against my back, and and he kisses my neck, slides his cock between my cheeks.

I hear him whisper an incantation, and my hole is suddenly loose, and wet, and I have just enough time to resolve to ask him about the charm later when his cock breaches me, and I gasp at the sudden stretch. He stills. “Okay?”

I take a breath, and then another, and feel myself relax marginally, and say, “Yeah, okay.” He gradually pushes inside me, inch by patient inch, until I feel his legs against my thighs, and his balls against my arse. “Draco,” I sigh. “More.” He fucks me, gently at first, and then, as he becomes sure that my moans are of pleasure and not pain, harder, faster. His arm snakes around to encircle my cock, and I’m incapable of speech, offering only a litany of moans and sighs. 

“Harry, Harry,” Draco says, as his thrusts grow harder, more erratic. I cant my hips back to meet his, the only sounds are our breath and slapping skin. I’m seeing spots, and it’s so good, everything I dreamed. “Draco,” I gasp. “Gonna’ come.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, not letting up his pace. “Come for me.” I’m helpless to disobey, and thick jets of my spend coat his hand, and the covers below me. I can feel my arsehole tightening around him, and he groans before I feel wet warmth, and it’s fucking blissful, and I may have found what I want to do with my life after all. Fuck being an Auror, I’m just going to fuck Draco, and sleep, and wake up and fuck him again. He is _definitely_ coming to my cabin in the woods. His pace slows, and eventually, he slips out, dragging himself to my side and wrapping his arms around me. I turn to face him, kiss his lips.

Eventually, our breathing returns to normal. He’s looking at me, his brow wrinkled, as though he can’t figure me out. Finally, he asks, “What was that?” 

“That was an amazing shag, Draco.”

“Who even _are_ you?”

“Am I that different?” I ask.

He’s silent for so long I don’t think he’s going to answer, but he eventually says, “What if I want it to be something more than an amazing shag?”

“Then it can be whatever you want.”

“But why me? We hated each other.”

I shrug. “I don’t hate you now.”

“I don’t hate you either.” His face looks very young, suddenly. “And what happens after I break the curse? When you remember that you hate me, and remember all of the things I did?”

“I don’t know,” I say, honestly. “But hopefully, I’ll remember how much I don’t hate you right now.”

“You might forget that you’re gay.”

I laugh. “Draco, you just fucked me into my mattress. I’m not going to forget that I’m bloody gay.”

He looks unconvinced, so I kiss him sweetly. Every time he starts to speak again, I kiss the words away.

“Is our past so bad that you can’t consider this? Can’t consider that we might work?”

“Yes,” he says, and then immediately afterwards, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe don’t bother breaking the curse then,” I say, mostly joking, but a little bit not, and kiss him again.

We nap, and fool around again, and, after a shower, we’re lying in bed, eating toast that Kreacher has produced, when he says, “I still want to see your memories.”

“Okay,” I agree lazily. “But only if I don’t have to get up.”

“And you won’t deliberately show me porn again?”

I laugh. “It wasn’t deliberate! You were kneeling at my feet. What was I supposed to do?”

“Fine. Lemme try now.”

“‘kay.” 

“Legilimens.”

It’s strange, having someone there with me in my mind. I can feel his presence, and I’m self-conscious, like I should have tidied up first. I try not to think of anything, which works about as well as you’d expect. I’m so afraid he’s going to find some sort of super-deviant kink or something, and leave my mind in a horrified huff, and storm out of here, that I’m left doing the mental equivalent of kicking pebbles while I wait. 

After what seems like an eternity, he withdraws, and says, “It’s a bit of a wasteland.”

“That’s…not flattering.”

“I’m pretty sure there were tumbleweeds.”

“So are they gone? Forever?”

“Nooo,” he says slowly. “It was weird. It’s not a curse, though. I can feel the foreign magic that’s locking up the memories. It’s like someone has created a vault, and shoved a whole bunch of stuff inside. I can say for sure that you didn’t do it to yourself, and the magic isn’t malevolent. It feels like healing magic, almost.”

“So someone cornered me in an old warehouse, while smuggling potions, and used benign, healing magic, to lock my memories away?”

“Yes?”

“That’s discouraging. I dunno how these sort of things work, but shouldn’t I have had to…I dunno sign something?”

“Well, criminals don’t generally trouble themselves with informed consent.”

“But what if it wasn’t a criminal?”

“Then you get up to weird things in your spare time.”

“No, you git, I’m serious. What if there was something going on at the Ministry that someone was trying to cover up? And they blew away my memories to keep me from going public?”

“You think that someone at the Ministry of Magic deliberately fucked with the memory of the most famous Wizard alive?”

“Maybe? It just seems strange that Mill and I were looking into the baby Death Eaters’ probation, which is all kinds of fucked up, and then my memory is wiped.”

“I don’t see the connection,” he says. “Wait. What baby Death Eaters’ probation?”

“Mill told me. She said your mates from Slytherin who weren’t marked, but had Death Eater parents were all put on probation, but it’s indefinite, and the probation officers seem to have a grudge.”

“Why didn’t Mill tell me that you were looking into that?”

“I dunno, Draco. Don’t you talk to your friends?”

He flushes, and looks away. “No,” he admits miserably. “The Goblins made it clear that if I wanted to keep my job, I’d need to avoid association with anyone inappropriate.”

“That’s bollocks!”

“I know. But I need that job.”

“Do you? I thought you were wealthy.”

“We were. But the Ministry took a lot for reparations. And old Manor houses are _expensive_ to maintain. Besides, if I have any hope of being seen as more than just a Death Eater, I have to be above reproach.”

“That doesn’t seem right either. What the fuck is wrong with this place?” I’m starting to get upset, and I can feel my magic rolling off me in irritated waves. “Why the fuck did I bother winning a war?”

“Potter, you’re ruining my afterglow.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I kiss him on the end of his nose, and he smiles at me, and it’s so breathtaking that I can’t help but squeeze him tight.

I’m suddenly exhausted, and so I forcibly pull him until he’s laying in the crook of my arm, his head on my chest. I stroke his silky hair until I drift off to sleep.

It’s dark when I feel him slip out of the bed. “Nooo,” I whine. “Stay?”

“I can’t, Harry. I’m expected at home.” 

I want to pout, but he’s called me Harry, which I really like, so I say, “Then kiss me goodbye properly.” He does, and I drift back to sleep, even if the bed feels a lot bigger and less fun than it did before.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, I sleep late, drag myself into the sitting room and practice spells for a while, until, hungry, I manage to convince Kreacher to sit and have tea with me. He grumbles endlessly about the amount of work he’s missing, but I ask him to tell me more about his original family, the Blacks, and so he’s quite happily describing the way that good house elves got their heads on the wall when they died, when the floo goes.

Hermione pops her head in. “Hullo Harry, Hullo Kreacher.”

Kreacher manages to greet her politely enough, but he casts a filthy look behind her back, and I vow to ask him for the story of why he hates her later. It only takes a little bit of begging for him to produce a cup of tea for Hermione. She protests that she can make it herself, but I cut her off, and say, “Kreacher likes making tea. And he’s better at it than anyone else I know.” He beams at me, and Hermione huffs.

“Master Harry, please can I be returning to Grimmauld Place to dust the treasures?”

“Yeah, whatever you like, Kreacher. Thanks for keeping me company today,” I say, and he sends a triumphant look Hermione’s way before he disappears.

“Harry, it’s exploitative to take advantage of him,” she scolds.

“Is it? He explained how house elf magic works, and how their magic increases by being bonded to a home, and its wizards. I offered to free him, and he cried. Just seems like he deserves a bit of agency to decide for himself.”

“No! He’s institutionalized, his people have been enslaved for so long that they don’t even realize that they can live in other ways.”

“Well what would you have me do? He’s super old, and if I free him, where’s he going to go?”

“I don’t know, but it’s wrong.”

“Well, if you think of a solution, I’ll discuss it with him, but I reckon he’s happier taking care of Grimmauld than if he were out on his own. I’m not hurting him, or letting him punish himself…although I wish you’d warned me about that. He brained himself with the iron yesterday before I caught him.”

She gives me a long look, which makes me uncomfortable, so I change the subject. “Anyhow, thanks for coming by. Did you have any news about the curse?”

“No,” she says. She must see something in my face, because she says, “I’ve been a bit busy, Harry. I do have a family, and a full-time job as well as helping you.”

“Oh,” I say. “I hadn’t thought about that. Sorry, Hermione, never mind. Don’t stretch yourself too thin.” She looks terribly guilty, sitting wretchedly wringing her hands. “Anyway,” I say, “speaking of the curse, Draco said-”

“When did you see Malfoy?” 

“Last night. He’s a curse breaker, did you know? He’s agreed to help me try to figure this out.”

“Harry, I don’t think that’s wise. You and Malfoy have a bunch of really bad history.”

“Yeah, but that’s the past, right?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. But he was the one who gave information to the Prophet in fourth year, and that _bitch_ Rita Skeeter wrote all sorts of nonsense about you. What if he sells you out again?”

“Why would he, though? It’s not like I’m going to shag him again if he talks to the press.”

“Harry! You shagged Draco Malfoy?”

I grin. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Oh my god, Harry, this isn’t funny. He was a Death Eater! He let other Death Eaters into the school. His Dad was Voldemort’s favourite crony!”

“Okay, and since the war? What terrible things has he done?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t exactly been following him around.”

“Yeah, but if he’d done something bad, you would have heard, right? Like, say he was stirring up a bunch of shite, rallying all of Voldemort’s buddies? He works for the Bank, Hermione, I’m sure they do a ton of background checks. He doesn’t even talk to his schoolmates anymore.”

“Harry, he was such a _git_ in school, though.”

“I get that. I believe you. But I don’t remember it. He hasn’t said a single thing to me to make me think he’s still like that.”

“But…”

“Why did we bother fighting a war, Hermione?” I bang my fist on the table and she jumps. “Sorry,” I say hastily, “but it’s true. If we’re just going to replace their prejudices with ours, what’s the point?”

“I’m not prejudiced!” She’s getting mad now. “How dare you say that!”

“Listen,” I say softly, trying to diffuse the situation, but all the time I’m thinking that I’m going to go truly mad if I stay in this insane society. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, I really do. But you can’t just expect me to supplant my own thoughts with your opinion, right?”

“But, Harry!”

“Wait. Answer the question.”

“Of course your opinion is valid, Harry, but you just don’t have all of the facts.”

I’m surprised by how insulted I am. “Hermione, I know you think I’m thick-”

“I don’t think you’re thick, Harry, honestly. I just…You just see the good in people, and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I know that you and Ron were right by my side, fighting Voldemort, but I don’t think I’m completely incapable of taking care of myself.”

“You aren’t.”

“So then why are you pushing this so hard? Why don’t you trust me to make my own decisions?”

“Because you can’t,” she snaps. “You’re too emotional, you don’t think things through!”

“That’s unbelievably patronizing,” I say.

“It’s not! I just don’t want to have to come in and pick up the pieces when you get screwed over by Draco bloody Malfoy!”

“Fine,” I reply coldly. “I won’t ask you to.”

“Harry, please. Stay away from him.”

“Your opinion is noted.” I say, and my voice is stiff. “Thank you for your help to this point, but I’ll sort myself out from here on.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Please, Harry, if you’d only listen!”

“I’ve listened, Hermione. Thank you for your concern, but I think you should be going now.” I stand and she looks at me imploringly.

“Harry, you’re my best friend. You’re so different, now! Don’t choose him over us.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was a choice, but I appreciate you clarifying. You should go, Hermione.”

The tears spill over and she reaches a hand toward me, but I step backwards. I watch her in silence, until her head falls in disappointment, and she walks slowly to the floo. She looks at me, just before she throws the powder, her face awash with tears, but I just watch her, expressionless, until she disappears in a flourish of green flames.

I’m not sure how long I sit, my mind blank. True, I don’t remember any of the shared history that Hermione and I have, but she and Ron are the link to my past. The only link, it seems. I don’t regret my harsh words, but I wish she hadn’t been hurt. It’s frustrating, though, being treated as though I’m witless because I don’t remember what’s happened before. Well, it seems that I’ve experience with going it alone. None of the day’s activities are making my imaginary cabin in the woods sound less appealing.

Stir craziness sets in after a few hours. I debate calling Kreacher back, but he’s not the best conversationalist, and a quick poke around confirms that I haven’t any alcohol in my flat. I need a drink, and I need to be distracted from the unpleasantness. I shower and dress, and find myself at the apparation point in Diagon before an hour has passed. The Leaky Cauldron is right there, and I can’t be bothered to try to find a different pub. This one has drink, I’m certain, and that will do for now.

It’s just nearing dinnertime, and so the pub’s mostly empty. I sit at the bar, and a woman who looks around my own age smiles in greeting. She’s pleasant looking, with an open, cheerful face, and wide-set blue eyes. Her hair is plaited down her back. “Hi Harry!”

“Hullo,” I say. “I’ve lost my memory, so I’m sorry in advance if we’re friends and I’m being rude.”

“Oh no! We are friends, actually. My name’s Hannah. Hannah Longbottom. My husband Neville was your dorm mate at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, the bloke that stabbed the snake?”

She grins. “Yes, that one. It seems someone has filled you in on the important details.”

“Obviously not, if they didn’t tell me that I had a friend who worked in a pub.” I smile at her.

She feigns offence. “ _Owns_ a pub, not works in, but yes. You’re a lucky fellow.”

“And I don’t suppose you remember what I like to drink?”

She frowns. “You don’t really drink, Harry. Butterbeer, mostly.”

“Oh. That sounds sort of vile, if I’m being honest. Do you suppose I could have a pint of something?”

“Of course, but go easy. You’re a bit of a lightweight.”

I try to go easy, honestly, but I overestimate my ability to hold my drink. Hannah convinces me to eat some chips, and stops serving me after a while, but the damage is done. She seems to find it hilarious that I’m completely sozzled. “Harry, let me call Ron and Hermione to come fetch you,” she says, when it appears that I’m falling asleep on the bartop.

“No. Not them,” I say. “They’re mad at me. Need someone else.”

“Well who? One of the Weasleys?”

“No, I broke their Jenny’s heart,” I answer.

“Merlin, you have been busy, Harry. I could call Neville, ask him to come from Hogwarts.”

“No, don’t want to meet him like this. ‘M pathetic.” I sit, realizing that my life, objectively, is shit. “Orphan,” I say at one point. “No family whatsoever.”

She looks at me with pity, and I hate it. “Can you call Malfoy?” I finally ask.

“ _Draco_ Malfoy?” She looks stunned, but I nod, glad that I’ve solved the problem.

“Yeah. I don’t know his floo-thingy, though. Can you send one of those glowy ghost animals?”

“A patronus? Sure. You taught me how to, actually.” She waves her wand, and a transparent squirrel emerges. I’m charmed, and cluck my teeth at it. It tilts its head at me, but then, seeing that I’m clearly useless, looks to its conjuror. “Go to Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. Tell him: Malfoy, it’s Hannah Abbott at the Leaky Cauldron. I’ve a very inebriated Harry Potter here with me, and he’s asked if you can come and help him to get home.” The squirrel takes off.

“Thanks, Hannah,” I say. “You’re lovely, you are.” I lie my head down on the bar. “Just going to have a little nap while I wait for Draco.”

“Alright, Harry,” Hannah says, petting my head a little. It feels nice. I want to purr.

Some time later, I hear a voice in my ear. “Potter? Why am I here?”

“Draco!” I’m delighted to see him. “You came! You saved me.”

“Yes, well, Abbott’s Patronus is rather persistent. Come along then, Potter, let’s get you home.”

“No,” I say, feeling sad again. “I don’t want to go home. She might come back.”

“Who?”

“Hermione. She got mad at me. And I got mad too.”

“What were you mad about?” I barely notice, but he’s helping me up from the stool, throwing a pile of gleaming coins onto the bartop, and nodding at Hannah.

“She’s bossy, Draco. She thinks I’m too stupid to know what I want.”

“And what do you want?”

“You,” I say. We’re standing at the apparation point now, and I can’t remember that we’ve walked here. 

“You fought with Granger about me?”

I nod. “I don’t want to be alone tonight, Draco. Can you come home with me?”

He shakes his head. “I have to go back to the Manor, Potter.”

“Oh,” I say. “Alright then. I’m going to go back inside.”

“No you aren’t.”

“I am. Everyone wants me to be alone. I don’t like it. I’ve been alone all week. ’S bollocks. I’m going to go hang out with my friend Hannah.”

“Hannah has to work. Look, let’s just take you home, and you can sleep it off. We’ll sort you out in the morning.”

“No,” I say. “Nevermind. I’ll just go walk it off or something. Sorry to drag you out like this.” I feel stupid. I’ve probably ruined things with Draco, and I’ve alienated my family. I’m a judgemental arsehole about the person I used to be, but at least he had more people than me. Hermione said I’m different, but I don’t know how to be old Harry. I start to walk down the cobblestones, headed vaguely in the direction of the ice cream parlour.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice is resigned. “Come here.”

“No. Sorry. I’m sorry, Draco.”

He’s beside me in an instant. “Look, I really have to be at home, but…” he sighs. “You can come with me.”

“I can? Thanks, Draco. I’m sorry I’m so pathetic.”

He chuckles. “You’re not pathetic, exactly. Just…floppy, and sort of sweet.” He takes my arm. “I’m going to side-along you, okay?”

Side-along apparation is terrible. My stomach registers its dismay by emptying its contents onto the grass, the moment we land. Draco holds me up, and waves his wand to get rid of the sick. He casts something that fills my mouth with mint flavour. “Didn’t enjoy that, Draco,” I whisper.

“No, I can see that. Listen, when we get inside, I need you to be quiet. If you wake the house up, it will be a nightmare.”

“The house is sleeping?” Kreacher had told me about this, how Wizarding houses were almost sentient, and they sometimes intercede when the residents misbehave. “Isn’t it going to like me?”

“You’ll be liked just fine, just not drunk at midnight,” he answers. I take his hand and smile delightedly at him. He leads me inside, and we walk for ages until we reach his bedroom. It’s enormous, bigger than my flat. He shuts the door, and waves his wand a bit. Door locking spell, maybe. I try to help him undress me, but I’m clumsy and my extremities feel a bit rubbery. When I’m stripped down to my pants, he leads me to the bed and pulls back the duvet. “Climb in, then, and wait a sec. Don’t throw up again.”

The minute I lay down, the room starts to spin, and I’m panicking that I’m going to throw up in Draco’s bed, after being specifically instructed not to. He’s back by my side right away though, and hands me a vial with a bright pink liquid inside. “Drink this, Harry.”

I pull the cork, and toss the liquid back. It tastes pretty nice. Raspberry, and something else that isn’t at all unpleasant. Immediately, my head clears, and the room stops spinning and I’m fucking thrilled by this turn of events. I smile up at him and he asks, “Better?” I nod. “Now, can I go back to fucking sleep?” I nod again, and he’s soon disrobed, and sliding in next to me.

I half-heartedly consider coming on to him, but I’m tired still, and he looks exhausted, so I just snuggle into the curl of his arms and lie there, languishing in how warm he is, and how comforting he smells.

It’s a few hours later when I gradually come back to a semblance of awareness. Awareness, specifically, of the distinctive hardness against my thigh, and the gentle rocking of his hips. He isn’t quite rutting against me, but the nudge of his erection against me stirs my own groin, and I slide my hand down his stomach and beneath his pants. His cock is hot, a little damp, and I feel it grow and lengthen against my palm. I lean my face towards him, and his lips find mine. As his tongue enters my mouth, I suck it, and swallow his groan. His hand is on my chest, and he pinches my nipple, just hard enough to make me gasp a little. I turn to face him, and he pulls my underwear down, as I’m doing the same to him. He’s stroking both of our erections, and I sigh at the sensation of our cocks together, the way my foreskin is pulled down to reveal the tip of my cock. It’s delicious, and I chase the pleasure, the way my belly tightens, and the crest of elation rises.

I’m nearly there, so close, and by the sounds of his breath, so is he. His movements increase in speed, until, abruptly, the room is filled with a completely unexpected sound. There’s a baby crying. In this room. We both still. It’s dark, so I can’t see his face, but he doesn’t seem surprised to hear a surprise infant, but rather, suffused with awkwardness at its timing. “Draco?”

“Um,” he says. “I have to…” and then he’s getting up, casting a Lumos, and pulling his pants back on, and a robe. 

“Draco? What’s going on?”

“I’ve got to go take care of him.”

“Take care of who?”

“My son,” he says, and then he’s gone, and the door shuts firmly, and I sit there, stunned, in the dark.

I don’t remember flooing home, but I must have. I don’t remember whether I gathered my glasses and my wand, or my clothes, but they’re sitting on my lap, so I obviously did. It takes me a long time to realize that I’ve been sitting for a while. Long enough that I’m cold. I crawl into my bed, and pull the covers around me. I lay in the dark for a long time, the plaintive wail of a baby echoing through my head. I don’t know much about baby ages, but certainly the child isn’t old enough to talk, right? Otherwise, it would call for its Daddy. Or Mommy. 

And that’s what really makes my stomach sink. That baby has a mother. And clearly, they occupy separate bedrooms, but Draco didn’t tell me about the baby, so perhaps he’s been equally tight-lipped about his wife. I’m filled with a hot terrible feeling that I was, unwittingly, the other party in a relationship. I’m pretty sure that old me would never have condoned this, and new me isn’t that thrilled either. It sounds messy, and complicated, and I can only imagine how pissed off Mrs. Malfoy’s going to be if she learns that I’ve been shagging her husband.

It bugs me that Draco has misled me, certainly, and it rankles far more that Hermione is right in saying Draco wasn’t to be trusted. I’ll have to admit as much to her, and provide her with more ammunition that I’m incapable of making my own decisions. What really bothers me, though, is that I’m so fucking _disappointed_ that I won’t be able to see him anymore. It makes me furious that I’m bothered by it, but I want to cry like a child deprived of a longed-for treat.

I don’t expect to hear from Draco, and even so, I’m deflated when I don’t. I spend the day sulking moodily in bed, even as Kreacher arrives to provide me with an aggrieved harangue when I refuse food. By late afternoon, I’m stiff and sore from laying around all day, and I drag myself into the shower, and put on a butter-soft pair of jogging pants and a henley. They’re clearly leftovers from my school days, and it’s irritating that I’m short enough that they still fit, but their cosiness does a lot to redeem them.

I’m listlessly flipping through a magazine when the floo roars to life, and Ron steps out. I look at him warily. I don’t have it in me to argue, and no doubt he’s annoyed that I made his wife cry. “Hey mate,” he says easily, “do you have any beer?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer. “But you’re welcome to it, if you can find it.”

He digs around in the fridge for a while, and comes out of the kitchen with two bottles held triumphantly aloft. As he passes me one, and flops onto the couch beside me, he says, “You look like you’ve had a bad day.”

I shrug. Undaunted, he continues. “Hermione isn’t herself either.”

“Are you here to yell at me for that?” I ask.

“Not my job to dole shite, you’ll learn that again. I talked to Hermione, because she was upset, and I figured that my other best friend might be upset too, so I thought I’d drop by and see if you wanted to talk or anything.”

“I didn’t mean to make her cry.”

“Of course you didn’t. I never mean to either, but it happens sometimes. And you and I both know that she doesn’t mean to hurt our feelings or make us mad. She cares about us, both of us. And when Hermione cares about something, or someone, she throws herself into making sure that they have the very best. It’s something that makes her an amazing friend. It’s also something that makes her a pain in the arse sometimes.”

I’m surprised to hear him speak so plainly, and I tell him so. He laughs. “Just because I love her, that doesn’t mean I don’t _see_ her. Most of the time, her bossiness is endearing. And sometimes, she goes too far, and I get annoyed. You haven’t fought back, not before this, not ever. I think you surprised her.”

“I just got defensive. I don’t like feeling like an idiot, and I don’t think she sees me as capable.”

“That’s not it, not really. We just built our patterns when we were eleven. I was a lazy little sod, who was used to getting my own way, and you were prone to throwing yourself in the path of danger without any consideration for your own hide. She was the little know-it-all who did most of the research. She’s good at it, and she kind of likes bossing us around, but it doesn’t hurt her to be reminded that we’re not kids anymore.”

“She was right, as it turns out.”

“About Malfoy? Or about the fact that you need minding?”

“Either. Both. I took myself to the Leaky Cauldron yesterday, and got too drunk. I felt awkward about calling you guys to get me home, so Hannah called Draco. He took me to his house, and I learned, at an inopportune moment, that he has a family.”

Ron digests this for a moment, and, unexpectedly, grins. “So you’re the other woman?”

“You’re a bastard,” I pronounce.

“Sorry mate, try to keep up. When you screw up, you get to take shite from your friends until it’s someone else’s turn.”

“Yeah. Anyway, so much for Draco.”

“Sorry. I’ve always maintained that he’s a right git, but I know you were…smitten.”

“Smitten? I was hardly smitten. Lust-addled, more like.”

“If it was lust, you wouldn’t be so pitiful-looking today. You were at least smitten-adjacent.”

“Git.”

“Slag. Homewrecker.”

It should offend me, or at least remind me that I’m a bit bruised, but instead, it makes me laugh out loud. Ron shares my laughter, but his face returns to seriousness. “In light of that, I’ve news.”

“Oh?”

“The timing isn’t great, but I figured you’d rather see, mate.” He reaches into the pocket of his robes, and pulls out a shrunken newspaper, which he returns to normal size and passes to me.

I scan the front page and groan as I see the picture. “Well, fuck.” I say finally.

“Yeah. I should have warned you that you’re constantly getting papped, but I sort of thought that you’d stay out of trouble.”

“Despite my limited understanding of my history, I can’t imagine why you’d think that.”

“Yeah, I don’t seem to learn, do I? Headline’s funny though.”

I read it more closely. “‘Saviour seduced by Sinner’? I’ll give them points for alliteration, but it’s a bit hyperbolic.”

“I dunno. Isn’t infidelity a sin?”

“Point.” I view the picture more closely. It was clearly taken last night as Draco rescued me from the Leaky Cauldron. I’m barely on my feet, and Draco’s half dragging, half carrying me towards the apparation point. Worst of all is the way, just before the picture loops again, I look up at Draco. Fuck. Ron’s right. I’m at very least smitten-adjacent.

The article’s full of speculative bullshit. I’m relieved to know that Ginny refused to comment, and Hannah barred the reporter, Skeeter, from the Leaky, but despite anything other than a blurry picture, Skeeter manages to discuss, for several paragraphs, my sexuality, how susceptible I am to becoming a Dark Lord, and what my current mental state is.

“What do I do?” I ask.

“Same as always, mate. Hold your head up, don’t comment, and let it blow over.”

I groan again, and allow myself one small moment with my eyes closed, the bridge of my nose pinched between thumb and forefingers, and deep, annoyed breaths whooshing in and out of my lungs. Temper tantrum abated, I open my eyes and look at Ron. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“I don’t know what it was about the the things I experienced that made me such a fucking…martyr to Wizarding society. I get orphaned and nearly murdered as a baby, shunted off to relatives that hated me, alternately vilified and glorified by the press, walked willingly to my death, and then devote my sad, boring adult life to continuing to risk my hide to keep this place safe. Why didn’t I ever want to watch the whole thing burn? Or,” I continue, “why haven’t I fucked off to some deserted cabin in the woods?”

Ron stares at me for a very long time. Finally, he says, “You know, that’s a really good question.”

We’re interrupted from further exploration of this topic by tapping at my window. For a moment, my heart leaps hopefully. The owl isn’t the same black one that had delivered Draco’s previous missives, but maybe it’s one from the bank? I eagerly open the window, and the bird holds its leg out imperiously. I untie it, and open it up, and my heart sinks back to its usual position as I realize that the writing isn’t Draco’s.

“Oh,” I say finally, after reading the letter over twice to ensure that I’m not seeing things.

Ron reaches out and I hand him the parchment. He reads it out loud, which I find, in a detached, shocked way, quite charming. “Mister Potter. We had an agreement. Surely, conduct of this nature is directly opposed to what we agreed to. I would hate to have to provide you with another lesson to remind you exactly how serious I am. I’ll expect your owl no later than tonight with an agreement that you’ll be more conscious of the attention you draw to yourself.

“What,” I say, sinking back onto the couch, “the fuck?”

Ron’s eyes are wide. “I have no idea, mate. What were you involved in?”

“I dunno. I assume it’s about the article, and whoever this is doesn’t seem to like Draco much. He’ll be glad to see that Draco’s already taken.”

“Git!” Ron bellows.

I’m grateful for the support, but there’s a part of me that secretly hopes that there’s a simple explanation for this. That somehow, I misheard Draco. That he didn’t actually say ‘my son,’ in that resigned, defeated voice. I shrug. “So should I reply to this guy?”

“How can you?” Ron gestures to the window. The owl has fucked off. 

“Ah shite,” I say. “This bloke probably doesn’t know that my memory’s gone. Now he’ll think I’m ignoring him.”

“Well, nothing more can be done about that,” Ron points out reasonably. “I’m hungry. We could go get Mum to feed us.”

“Nah,” I say. “I don’t think that’s fair to Ginny. Also, I imagine your Mum is pretty narked off at me.”

“She’ll be fine,” he says. “She’s disappointed, hell, we’re all disappointed. You’re the least objectionable brother-in-law we could have picked, but if it’s not going to work out, better you know now, right?”

“Have you always been this easy-going?”

He laughs. “No, I was a jealous little arse in school. I wasn’t loyal to you, not at times when I should have been. But I learned. Eventually. And after the War ended, I guess I figured out some things. Figured myself out.”

“I didn’t say, but thank you. You’ve likely put up with a lot, being my friend.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re my best mate. Listen, Harry, now that you’re gay, are we going to have to talk about _feelings_?”

“Stop stereotyping. Why don’t we go to the Leaky Cauldron? I owe Hannah an apology, and I’ll buy you dinner.”

I’m glad that he doesn’t suggest going to his house. I’ll make it up with Hermione, likely, if for no other reason than to avoid putting Ron in the centre of all of this, but not today.

And I’m surprised at how nice it is. Ron’s gotten over being upset about Ginny, and about Malfoy, and he doesn’t even say ‘I told you so’. He seems steadfastly in my corner, and, when it’s him and I on our own, I understand why he’s my best friend. As we say goodbye, Ron wraps a big, bearlike arm around me. “Don’t worry about Malfoy,” he says. “If he’s too stupid to see what a top bloke you are, it’s his loss.”

“Thanks, Ron,” I’m still feeling fond of him as I apparate home. My bruised feelings are soothed a little, knowing that Ron’s got my back. As I walk through the door of my flat, there’s an almighty clattering at my window. Clearly, an owl’s been lying in wait for me to arrive home. I let it in, but it’s another one who disappears the second I untie the parchment, without waiting for a reply.

The missive is brief, and, if I’m not mistaken, a bit curt:

_Potter,_  
Please come see me in my office first thing tomorrow morning.  
Kingsley. 

Hoping that I’ll finally get some movement on the wanker that removed my memories, I get ready for bed and, as I lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim me, I only think of Draco a little bit.


	6. Chapter 6

I’ve got a bad feeling, I realize, as I cross the atrium of the Ministry the next morning. The letter from the anonymous stranger has me rattled, and I don’t know who to trust enough to tell. 

Agnes smiles at me as I arrive at her desk. “Harry, how’re things?”

“Great, how’s Reginald?” She beams, and I placidly listen to tales of her wayward Crup while she plies me with biscuits. Fifteen minutes later, Kingsley comes to the door, and beacons me inside.

“Potter,” he says, his eyes riveted on me. I note that I’m Potter this time, not Harry. I can’t imagine that’s a coincidence. There’s no hug this morning, either.

“Minister,” I say back, keeping my own gaze steady.

“Thank you for coming in to see me,” he says. He looks a bit uncomfortable, and, although I’m not sure why my instincts tell me to do so, I decide not to make this easy for him. I nod, and wait. “I want to start out by assuring you that this conversation is not an official discussion, just a friendly chat with someone who has always had your best interests at heart.”

I consider saying something that would force him to clarify that it is Kingsley himself who so carefully guards my best interests, but he hasn’t done anything to alienate me…yet, so I murmur, “Alright.”

“Harry, I know that the press has always been somewhat predatory about you, and that your privacy hasn’t always been well-guarded. In the past, I believe that you’ve learned to keep a tight control on your behaviour in public, but with recent events, I think I may have been remiss in not warning you in advance.”

Ah, I realize. This is about the article in the Prophet. I nod, waiting for him to continue.

“As you rise through the ranks of leadership here at the Ministry, the need to safeguard your reputation will only increase. I’ve long admired your commitment to open-mindedness and fair treatment for all since you’ve joined our ranks. People know that you’re incorruptible, and they trust you explicitly.”

“That’s good,” I say. He’s getting a little frustrated by how little I’m nudging the conversation along, but I’m curious to see what, exactly, his problem is.

“A part of preserving that overall image, however, is the way you conduct your personal life, and the company you keep. I know that most people, myself included, expected you and young Miss Weasley to be married, and I have to say, Harry, politically speaking, you couldn’t pick a better match. She and her family are widely respected, and their actions during the War have been completely above reproach.”

I gift him with a tiny curve of my lips. There’s more that he has to say, and he won’t get a reaction before I understand exactly where he’s leading. I see a tiny flicker of resignation in his eyes as he mourns my placidity, and he continues, “That’s why I was awfully surprised to see the article in the Prophet this morning.”

“Kingsley,” I say, with a hint of humour in my voice, “you know that the Prophet isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”

“True,” he acknowledges, “and yet it’s the most widely read publication in our community. Accurate or not, the general public will accept what they say without question.”

I nod, giving him a beaming smile. “That’s exactly why I’ve realized it doesn’t matter much, what I do. They’ll spin it in whatever direction will sell the most copies, so it’s a license to do as I like.” He frowns, and I hasten to add, “Provided it’s legal, of course.”

His lips tighten, and I see we’ve come to the ‘cut the bullshit’ portion of his speech. “Harry, what exactly is going on between Draco Malfoy and yourself?”

“Minister, that’s an awfully personal question, and I am quite sure it goes beyond the limits of what my employer is legally permitted to ask me.”

His temper is rising, and I don’t know why it fills me with glee, but I keep my expression neutral. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, I’m not just your employer. I’ve considered myself your friend for quite some time now.”

“And is it as my friend, or my superior that you’re asking me about Draco Malfoy?”

One sentence, and I’ve tipped him over the edge from annoyed to angry. “Potter, you are in line to be the next Head Auror. You must know that you can’t be seen consorting with known Dark Wizards.”

“Why is a known Dark Wizard working in a position of authority within our only financial institution?”

“We don’t have any evidence of his current actions, but he’s a Malfoy. Surely your friends have told you about his allegiances during the War?”

“They have. But I was under the impression that he stood trial, and was absolved of his misdeeds. I thought that I myself testified to his actions, ones that directly impacted the outcome of the War. Is there a case being built against him now?”

“As long as Malfoy keeps clean, we have no interest in wasting our time on him. But you must see that it will impact the way that your character is viewed, if you spend time with him.”

“Ah, I see, so he’s still to be shunned, and excluded from society, but not outright persecuted. Remind me, Kingsley, were we trying to entice a new Dark Lord to rise?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” He’s furious now, and I can’t keep up my own calm facade for long.

“As far as I can see, the last Dark Lord was out to exclude those who were of ‘impure blood’ from society. Are you intent on doing the same to Purebloods now?”

“Of course not,” he snaps. “There are good Purebloods, and I have no interest in punishing them.”

“Ah,” I say, “just the _bad_ Purebloods. That sounds astonishingly unfair. Are you the sole arbiter of which Purebloods are the good ones?” I look at a framed campaign poster that adorns his wall. It proudly proclaims, ‘Unity is Might’. His gaze follows mine, and I feel a small sense of satisfaction that he quells, just a little.

But, I realize, I’ve reached the end of my patience. I don’t think that I’ve been much more than a pawn, all along. Certainly, to hear of the way Dumbledore used me, I fell into my role without much reluctance, as an impressionable eleven year old. And then, fresh from a War, a War during which I willingly walked to my death, Kingsley and his Ministry must have seen me as ripe for the picking. With a quick apology to my former self, who will no doubt be furious with what I’ve done with his life, I say, “Minister, I’ve a number of things to do today, and I’m certain you’re a busy man as well. Shall we get straight to the heart of the matter?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing, Harry.”

“Indeed.” I quirk my lips at him again, and say, “In order to be absolutely certain I understand, let me restate what I understand.” He nods. “It would seem that we’re at a bit of an impasse. If I wish to pursue the opportunity of Head Auror, I’ll need to be especially careful about who I consort with. Namely, being seen in the company of Draco Malfoy would make me ineligible for consideration. Have I gotten that correct?”

“I’m afraid so, Harry. We need to appear above reproach. There can be no hint of any affiliation with those who have practiced Dark Magic in past.” Kingsley looks regretful, as though he realizes that he’s disappointed me. I don’t think he truly has any idea.

“Very well. I’ll send you formal notice within the week, Minister, but thank you for your consideration.”

His brow furrows. “Formal notice? What do you mean, Harry?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Formal notice of my resignation, of course. I can’t possibly support a Ministry that doesn’t support equality for all. And I can’t work for a Minister that doesn’t allow my past actions to speak for my character. I wish you the best, Kingsley.”

I stand, and he gapes at me. “Harry, you can’t possibly be considering walking away from your career, from your future, over this.”

“On the contrary, I absolutely can.”

“Are you joking? You’ll set a match to your entire life over Draco Malfoy?”

“It has nothing to do with Draco Malfoy, sir. If you consider it a while, I’m sure you’ll see that.” I turn and leave the office, smiling at Agnes as I walk by her desk.

I’m nearly at the lift when someone grabs my arm and pulls me into a nearby supply cupboard. _Fuck_. I doubt my impressive _Lumos_ will do much to scare this person away. It’s Smith, the guy that creeped me out the last time I was here. “Potter,” he purrs. “You’ve been a bad boy.”

“Have I?” This guy clearly doesn’t know I’ve lost my memories, so as long as I play along, I’m sure it will be fine. What could possibly go wrong?

“We had an agreement.”

I think fast. “Perhaps I’ve decided that we should reconsider the terms.” _Oh shite, oh shite! Am I corrupt?_

“You’re the one who wanted me to avoid putting Malfoy on probation.”

Oh. Alright, I could see myself doing that. I'm relieved that I'm not taking a bribe or anything, but this is morally, a bit grey.

He continues, his ratty, stupid face filled with annoyance. “You agreed to stay out of Probation and Rehabilitation, and to avoid drawing any attention to us with your Gryffindor brashness.”

“And I have.”

“Then why did I have Granger asking probing questions about Pansy Parkinson?”

“Dunno,” I deflect. “Maybe she’s taking on a new pet project.”

“Well, if you don’t want me to find some reason to slap a probationary order on Malfoy, you’d better call off your dog.”

“You’re a twat.”

“Yeah, but I’m the twat who holds the power, Potter. Don’t make me dole out another lesson.”

He storms away, and I take a minute to collect myself before leaving the cupboard. Fuck. Stupid old Harry. Well, I’m going to stay the fuck out of this, that’s all I know. Cabin in the woods, here I come.

As I emerge from the Ministry, and into the sun, I consider what I’ve just done. None of quitting my job was about Draco, not really. I know that this decision has been brewing since my first meeting with Kingsley, but I’m a bit shaken by the finality of it. It’s clear that the old me didn’t have much of a life, outside work, and to me…current me, that just seems like a waste. Why didn’t I just stay dead, if all I planned to do was work, and languish in a comfortable, but ultimately unfulfilling relationship? Still though. I might end up furious when I get my memories back. Ultimately, since old me isn’t around to ask, I decide to make the most of my new found freedom, and go eat some ice cream.

It’s still only half ten, so Fortesque’s is empty when I arrive. Louise is carrying a heavy barrel of ice cream to place in the cooled counter. I rush to her side and grab it from her. “Thanks,” she breathes, and she looks delighted to see me. “You’re becoming our best customer!”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to run a bit more, to burn off all this ice cream, but it’s so worth it.” I follow her into the back, and lift one of the barrels as she does the same. We carry it out to the coolers, and repeat the process a half dozen more times. Louise pushes her long hair out of her face, and smiles her thanks.

“You aren’t back to work yet, Harry?”

“Actually,” I say, “I’m not going back.”

“You’re kidding. That’s huge.”

I nod. “I may regret it, but I just don’t fancy fighting anymore. I want to do something that makes me happy.”

“You deserve it. Truly, Harry.”

“Thanks, Louise.” As I say the words, I realize something. I do deserve it. I’ve been joking about running away from it all, but if what if I had a simple life, doing things that were fun? Why shouldn’t I do something that makes me feel happy? Suddenly, I have an idea. “Louise, I’ll be right back. I need ice cream, but I need to do something first.”

Gringott’s is nearly empty at this time of the morning, so it takes nearly no time to be shown to an office. The Goblin behind the desk views me with distain. “How can I help you, Harry Potter?”

I wonder if my old self knew how to do stuff like banking, but I decide to just lay my problem on the table. “I don’t know if I have money.”

He regards me with a strange look on his face. “You have money,” he replies.

“Right, but I haven’t the faintest idea how much. Look, I was cursed, and I’ve lost a bunch of my memories. I didn’t see any account statements at my flat, so I just need some help figuring out where I stand.”

“I understand.” The Goblin, who is remarkably uncurious about my curse, pulls out an enormous book, which he leafs through until he reaches the ‘P’ section. “You, Harry Potter, were the sole Heir of the Potter estate at your parents’ death in 1981, which was, obviously, held in trust for you by Albus Dumbledore until you reached your majority. At that point, the estate was valued at nine hundred thousand Galleons. I have been responsible for the management of the Potter estate for four generations now, and since your inheritance, the Potter holdings are, as of this morning, worth one point four million galleons. In addition, you inherited the Black estate as the named Heir upon the death of Sirius Black III, which is currently worth around five hundred thousand Galleons. This of course, does not include the value of the real estate holdings of the Black and Potter families.”

I blink at him for a moment. “So I have nearly two million Galleons in my vault?”

“Vaults. Yes.”

“And, not to be indelicate, but that’s like, a lot of money. More than I could probably spend in a lifetime.”

“Yes. Especially considering that you’ve taken exactly ten thousand, two hundred and twenty Galleons in withdrawals from the principal vaults since your birth.”

“Oh. Alright then. Thanks.”

“Did you wish to make any changes?” He seems a bit affronted, but I'm confused.

“Changes to what? It seems like things are going well here.”

“Do you have any concerns with the way that Gringott’s has been managing your accounts?”

“Of course not. You say it’s been growing, right?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Thanks. I have a feeling I'll be spending a bit more going forward though. Feel free to get in touch if I go too mad.”

I keep my head down as I leave Gringott’s. I don’t know what to say if I see Draco, and I don’t fancy my ability to keep my temper. I practically sprint back to Fortesque’s, my head spinning. I’m wealthy, stupidly wealthy. I’m so relieved that I won’t be poor, now that I’m unemployed. I can do whatever I want. My mind is made up as I lose my footing, hurtling through the door. “Louise, are your mum and dad in?”

“Harry, what’s wrong? You’re all sweaty, and you look like you’ve just gotten terrible news.”

“Not terrible,” I pant. “Brilliant news, actually.”

The elder Fortesques are clearly concerned as they sit me down at the generous back table with a pot of tea. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I’m sorry to keep you both from your day, but I wanted to make you a bit of a proposal.”

“Alright.” Mister Fortesque looks a bit wary, but he’s such a friendly sort of man that even wariness looks good natured.

“Listen, this is none of my business, and you’re welcome to tell me to stay out of it, but…I know that Louise wanted to go to University, but she’s needed here in the shop. I’d like to change that.”

“But how?” Mrs. Fortesque looks sad. “Even if we could manage the fees, we couldn’t cover another salary.”

“That’s where my proposal comes in. Your business has been open for generations, right?”

“Yes, several. We’ve been lucky to prosper in the Alley for over a hundred years, and we’ve been lucky to be able to reopen after the recent troubles. We were closed for three years, as we had to go into hiding during the War. It was a terrible time for all of the businesses here.”

“I’m sure it’s taken some time for business to pick back up, since the Alley has reopened, but I have every faith in your continued success. I’d like to invest in your company.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Fortescue says. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Well, it’s not completely altruistic. I’ve recently found myself with a bit more spare time, seeing as how I’ve parted company with the Ministry.”

“You quit your job?” Mister Fortesque looks thunderstruck. “But everyone says you’ll be the youngest Head Auror ever.”

“But I don’t want that. I don’t really know what I’d like to do, but if I don’t have something to keep me busy while I figure it out, I’ll go mental. I want to work somewhere that I can make people happy, where I enjoy the people I work with. I’d like to work here sometimes, if you’d allow it.”

“Merlin, Mister Potter, we’d never be able to pay you what you’d deserve.”

“No,” I laugh, “You don’t understand. I have absolutely no skills, other than being someone that people like to stare at. I don’t want payment. Well, I wouldn’t turn down free ice cream, but I’m very lucky that my parents were able to provide me with some financial stability that allows me a bit of freedom. And you’ve been so welcoming. I’m happy when I’m here. I doubt I'll be any good at this, but people will certainly come to look at me, and they'll buy ice cream while they do. I’d also like for you to hire some more reliable help as well.”

“But son, if you’ve lost your memory, you might change your mind, once you get it back.”

“If I change my mind, you’ll still have someone else here to work.” It all seems really simple to me. “Listen, it’s good to have a place where people can come and enjoy themselves. I’d like to be part of that, help you rebuild. It might be more trouble to you than it's worth, but I'd love to try.” I hesitate. 

“There’s something else,” I say finally. “Separate from all this, I want to start up a scholarship program to give young people more opportunities. I found out that there are kids living in Knockturn Alley who don’t end up going to Hogwarts because they can’t afford books. And I know someone who wants to go to university, but she isn’t sure if her parents can afford the fees.”

“Harry,” Mister Fortesque starts, but I raise my hand, asking to continue. He closes his mouth and waits.

“Honestly, Mister Fortesque, there aren’t very many people who treat me normally. As though I’m just a regular person. I appreciate that you do, and I’d like to see that Louise gets a chance to follow her dream. Once she’s on her feet, she can do the same for someone else someday. Alright? Please?” Now that I have this idea in my head, I’m reluctant to let it go. I can’t keep hanging around the house, and I feel like this is the only way they’ll let me come and hang out.

“Alright, lad, but on one condition,” Mister Fortesque says. “You’ll call us Florean and Ellen, yes?”

I grin. “I think I can manage that.”

“I don’t know,” Ellen Fortesque says. “Dear, you’re making a lot of hasty decisions, are you certain you won’t regret them?”

“No,” I reply honestly. “I may think that I’ve made a terrible mess of things, if I ever get my memory back. But I’ll figure things out. I think I’m good at that.”

She stands and rounds the table until she’s standing next to me. “You’re a blessing, Harry Potter,” she murmurs into my hair as she pulls me into a hug. I feel a bit uncomfortable by the raw emotion, so I tell them that I’ll have a solicitor contact them about the investments, and we agree that I can come and help out whenever I’m free. Their beaming faces usher me from the store, and I walk down the alley with a spring in my step.

I feel celebratory that night, and so I pull on a pair of tight camouflage combat pants and a t-shirt that hugs every angle. My pride is still pretty bruised at being an inadvertent home wrecker, and I conclude there’s no better remedy for a broken heart than some positive attention. I return to the club I went to the night I got out of St. Mungo’s. Just like last time, there’s a long line snaking down the sidewalk, but the doorman catches my eye and nods me over.

“Hi,” I say. 

He eyes my body appreciatively before saying, “You’re back.”

“I need to unwind,” I reply. 

He grins at me, and passes me a little card that has the name, Bryan, and floo coordinates on it. “I don’t get off until one, but if you need help unwinding, floo me.”

He’s not my type, too big and burly, but I appreciate the sentiment, and this is the second time he’s let me in without paying, so I widen my eyes at him and grin. His hand lingers on my back as he opens the door for me, and I am immediately glad that I decided to come. 

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I barely stumble as I make my way to get a drink. The girl behind the bar is a tiny asian girl, whose eyes are expertly made up. She glances at my scar for a split second before saying, “What’ll you have?”

“I don’t know,” I confess. “I’m not much of a drinker. Will you pick something for me?”

She laughs. “You’re entirely too trusting.”

I shrug. “I don’t think you’ll steer me wrong. Either way, I put myself entirely at your mercy.”

She pours a clear liquid into a glass, followed by another, carbonated clear liquid and plunks a lime wedge in. “There you are. Gin. Soda. Perfect for a night of dancing.”

I taste it. “See? My faith in you wasn’t misguided in the slightest.”

She winks at me, and I ease my way into the crowd. It’s a sea of bodies, and I allow myself to be tossed along through the throng. I get groped a few times, and I’m pleasantly half-hard by the time I find a little pocket of space. The music is Muggle, complete with thumping beat, and it isn’t long before I’m gyrating along with everyone else, my drink gone and the glass banished to the bar. The alcohol has made me feel sort of floaty, and I lose myself in the sensation of heat, and close contact with bodies that are a bit dewy with exertion. Despite my carefully controlled attempts to avoid doing so, I cast a quick look around the club, seeking out the distinctive white-blond hair, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed when I don’t see him.

Resolute, I catch the eye of a man with red-brown hair. His smile is wide and open, completely uncomplicated. His brown eyes meet mine and there’s a connection, a flare of interest. We dance for a few songs, the touches innocent, but a surreptitious look at his crotch confirms that he’s here for the same thing I am. I don’t even both meeting his eyes, just turn and walk towards the door that leads to the alleyway beside the club. I know he’s behind me. I can feel his gaze, hot on my back.

The air outside is cool, compared to the stifling heat of the dance floor. I lean against the bricks, my eyes half closed, the too-strong drink making my senses blur. He stands in front of me, his legs wide, knees surrounding mine. He presses close, his cock hard against my groin. The friction is bliss. He kisses me, but he’s too enthusiastic, all tongue and spit, and alcohol breath. I push him backwards a little. “Why don’t you put that mouth to use somewhere else?”

His pupils dilate, and he sinks to his knees, clumsy hands unbuckling my belt, opening my fly. I’m not a blowjob expert, by any means, but this one’s mediocre at best. Still, mouth on cock is hard to screw up too much, as I demonstrated the other night. He pulls off. “You can fuck my mouth, if you want.” His voice is shy, his eyes cast submissively downward. He has incredibly long eyelashes, which rest appealingly on his high cheekbones. I grip him by the hair, thrust into his waiting mouth. He moans. It’s perfunctory. A means to an end, but still, I come, and as I pull sharply on his hair when I spill down his throat, by the sounds of him, he does too.

I don’t bother looking at him as I tuck myself away, and I say nothing as I walk through the alley. Despite my release, it didn’t compare to the bliss that sex with Draco brought. Deflated, inexplicably ashamed, I decide to head home, but as I’m walking past the line in front of the club, which now snakes even farther down the sidewalk, a distinctive flash of blond catches my peripheral vision. I can’t apparate, not from here, but I walk more quickly. “Harry!” 

I ignore him, ignore the ache in my stomach at the sound of his voice. “Harry! For fuck’s sake, Potter.” It takes him almost no time to catch up to me, and he grabs me by the shoulder, turns me to face him.

“Draco, don’t,” I say wearily. I want to go home. I don’t want to have this conversation while tipsy and smelling of sex with a stranger. Maybe I don’t want to have the conversation at all. What is there to say?

“Listen to me, you stupid fucker. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t? Well, that seems typical of me,” I say, and I can hear the anger in my voice.

“Harry, please. Can we go to your place? To talk?” I’m about to say no, but I hesitate. I’ve been watching for an owl from him for days, even as I was telling myself I didn’t care. He isn’t looking at me; his feet are obviously fascinating. He looks vulnerable. There’s no future for us, but I wonder if there will be some sort of satisfaction in confronting him. I just want to know why he thought it was okay. Did he think that I’m the sort of person who’d enjoy being a bit on the side? Even though I’m a bit nervous about being alone with him, I finally nod, but he’s still not looking at me.

“Okay,” I say. “Just for a minute.”

We apparate to my flat, and I immediately make tea. I have no desire for tea, but I desperately need something to do other than look at him. I’m a bit afraid that my resolve will falter now. I can’t though. Even if I feel an attraction to Draco, my feet are on firm ground for a change. I pass him a cup, and wrap my fingers around my own mug. I stare into the liquid, and ponder the ridiculousness of my life. Ron had needed to tell me how I take my tea. 

“Harry, will you look at me?” His voice sounds different, younger. I look up, and I’m struck by his expression. His grey eyes are wide, and there’s a little crease in his forehead. His lower lip is caught beneath his teeth, and I’m left with the impression of a child, trying desperately to master a new skill. I don’t know what he sees in my own face, but his expression is complicated, unknown. The silence stretches and he finally blurts out, “I have a son.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” I say.

“I didn't expect you to come to my house. I didn’t know it would be a problem. I thought you liked children. And I wasn’t…I didn’t intend for you to…I…I didn’t think that you would be around long enough to learn about him. I don’t allow him into society.”

“What about your wife? Is she locked away in your giant castle too?”

“What wife? Potter, what are you talking about?”

“I don’t know what kind of bloke I used to be, but I’d never allow someone to cheat on their spouse with me.”

“I don’t have a spouse, you imbecile! Is that why you left?”

“Of course it is! Where’s the baby’s mother?”

“France, I imagine,” Draco sighs. “Harry, even before you lost your memory, you never learned a single thing about our world. It’s always driven me mad. I’m gay, Potter. I have no interest in women. But I’m the Malfoy Heir, and continuing the line isn’t optional. I’ve always known that I would need to have a son. My parents arranged a marriage with a suitable woman, who agreed to bear me an Heir, and discreetly divorce me afterwards. It’s very common.”

I realize that I’m gaping at him, with what is, undoubtedly, a vapid look on my face. “It’s common?” I finally ask. “To transact a marriage, and have a child who solely exist to further the family name?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and he has this stubborn, porcelain set to his jaw that makes me want to hit him. Or bite him. “I’m sure it happens in the Muggle world as well.”

Maybe it does, but it sounds cold. “And does your child-” 

“Scorpius.”

“ _Scorpius_?”

“It’s a family name, Potter.”

“Whatever. Does Scorpius see his mother?”

“Of course not. It would be very confusing.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to feel about all of this, but my mind does note a salient point. That Draco doesn’t have a wife, that he is gay, and that he hadn’t lied, so much as chosen not to share personal information with me. “I’m sorry, then. I overreacted.”

He looks startled at that. “I don’t think I’ve every heard you admit that you were wrong before.”

“Really? Funny, it seems like I’m wrong a lot. Do you accept my apology?”

“I guess,” he says, still a bit huffily.

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” I don’t think I’m the sort to do any sort of effective seducing, so I hope he’ll just get the implication, and let me kiss him.

His smile is molten gold, and I can’t breathe. I feel myself step closer to him, and I can’t help but touch him. I smooth his hair away from his face, and grip the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss him. The friction of our tongues is bliss, and I think I might die if I don’t get his naked body against mine. I don’t hear the spell he uses to remove the clothes from our bodies, but I make a mental note to ask him later. Later, when I’m no longer sucking a red mark on his beautiful, pale neck. I pull him close, apparate us both to my bedroom, and push him down onto the bed. 

“You smell of someone else,” he growls.

“I do,” I agree.

“I don’t share, Potter. If we continue this, there can’t be anyone else.”

“Alright. I’d rather fuck you anyway.”

“Alright,” he says.

Too much talking, I decide. “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, and his eyes widen. I can’t look away, and it’s awkward, because I can’t see what I’m doing, but the friction of our cocks against one another is exactly what I need. We kiss, and kiss, and I suck his lower lip, his tongue

He’s breathing fast, his cheeks pink, tiny drops of sweat beading on his forehead. I’m so hard, and I can feel the orgasm building, starting from my toes and rippling through my legs. I frantically rut against him, and he lets out the most delicious little whimper I’ve ever heard. “Close,” he gasps, and I nod, the ability to speak having vanished. “Harry,” he says, throwing his head back onto the pillow. I feel his cock pulsing, the warm gush of his come against our bellies, and I helplessly follow him over the edge. I’m losing feeling in my arms, and I carefully lever myself onto the bed next to him, trying desperately to get my breathing under control. I feel as though my bones have gone to jelly. I’m too spent to even look at him, and I stare at the ceiling, wondering how I didn’t figure this out earlier. He clumsily grabs my hand, raises it in the air weakly and croaks, “Yay.”

I laugh, and agree. “Yay.” I don’t feel like I’m going to expire of satiated lust any longer, and so I maneuver him closer. He lays his head on my chest, and I wriggle my arm underneath him, so that I can hold him tightly. I stroke his side, and he giggles, which is, frankly, adorable. “Draco Malfoy, you’re ticklish?” I ask in delight.

“No,” he says guardedly. “Your hands are rough. Haven’t you heard of moisturizer?”

“My hands are like rose petals. You are. You’re ticklish.”

“Shut it, Potter.”

“I’m going to learn every single one of your ticklish spots, you know.”

“Later. Sleep.”

I can’t argue with that plan, so I content myself with breathing in the scent of his hair until I drift off. When I wake up a short time later, I’m starving, and I have to pee, and the come has dried all over us so I’m itchy and feel disgusting. As I wriggle out from under him, I wonder if I can entice Draco into the shower with me. “No,” his voice is adorably sleep rough. “Stay.”

“I need to shower.”

“What time is it?” Draco casts Tempus. “Fuck. I have to go.”

I feel a twinge of disappointment. Draco has responsibilities. He has a son. He has to go. “Shower with me first?”

He does, and I suck him off under the stream of hot water, and he lingers at the doorway of the bathroom to kiss me. “Lunch tomorrow?”

I smile into his lips. “I’d like that. I have some things to do about the baby Death Eaters, but I should be able to fit it in.”

“Mm, really?” He’s kissing down my neck and it’s distracting as hell.

I manage to gather my thoughts enough to say, “Yeah, I need to talk to Mill. That stupid fucker Smith threatened me, and I think he’s going to send Pansy to Azkaban to punish me. I wasn’t going to do anything, because I’m done fighting fucking wars, but it pissed me off, and I changed my mind.”

He pulls back and looks at me carefully. “I never knew,” he says finally.

“Knew what?”

“You really are that good. I always thought it was an act, the way you couldn’t stand by if people were being treated unfairly. You’re an insufferable Gryffindor, you know.”

“I don’t know about that. It’s not even really about Pansy, I don’t even remember her. I’m just pissed at the idea that I died for a society who can’t stop letting their prejudices get in the way of sense.”

“As I said,” he replies, looking smug, and kisses me one more time. “I really have to go.”

“I know.” He twists on his heel, and disapparates with a pop, leaving me standing in the doorway, unable to contain the enormous grin that’s spread across my face.

The sound of the floo chiming wakes me the next morning. I can tell it’s early; the sun isn’t even up. “Potter!”

It’s Draco. The sappy grin is back, and I stumble to the floo, hoping for a quick shag before Draco goes to work. Draco’s face is pinched. “Can I come through for a moment?”

“Of course,” I say, stepping back and allowing him entrance. I catch a closer look at his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“You need to leave this thing with the Slytherins alone.” He isn’t meeting my eyes.

“Draco, why?”

“I just need you to trust me. Please. Just let it go. You don’t owe them any favours.”

“True. But I’m not a fucking tool to be manipulated.”

“Harry,” he finally meets my eyes, and his expression is unreadable. Is he angry? Disappointed? I can’t place the implacable features, the hint of a sneer on his lips.

“I don’t understand. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I…”. He rakes a hand through his hair, and it seems so incongruous with his emotionless face that I reach out to touch his other arm. He jerks it away, and glares at me. “Nothing. Just listen. Don’t interfere.”

“And if I don’t? Is someone else intervening?” He looks away again. “Damnit, Draco, what’s going on?” I’m frustrated, and I take a step closer to him. The angry expression on his face falters for a moment, but returns in force as his grey eyes meet mine.

“I’m asking you to leave this alone. It’s important.”

“I don’t understand why you won’t explain.”

“I don’t understand why it matters! You didn’t give a fuck about the Slytherins when we were at school, and you certainly didn’t give a fuck about them after the War. Don’t suddenly grow a conscience.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “It’s not about that, okay? I don’t know why I was an asshole to your classmates, and I don’t know why I cared about them just before I lost my memory. I don’t want to be involved in any of this! I have no idea why I walked to my death like an idiot, and I don’t know why I was throwing myself in the path of murderous assholes. I want nothing to do with the fucking Ministry of Magic. I want to work at an ice cream shop, and I want to shag you, and I maybe want to go build a cabin in the woods, and I want to be fucking _happy_ for once. This thing with the Slytherins was from before, but it doesn’t sit right that some slimy little shit can threaten me in a fucking storage room.” I stalk across the room and stare out the window, trying to get my emotions under control. I’m so bloody sick of not knowing what’s going on, and doing the wrong thing all the time.

“Harry,” he says, and I turn around again. His eyes are a bit glassy, as though he’s seconds away from tears. “Please. If you care about me at all, just leave it alone. Go back to not caring about them.”

“It’s important?”

“It is.”

“Important enough to let your friends go to Azkaban?”

He makes a strange face then, as though something has bit him, hard, but he resumes his strange, disaffected expression, and says, “Yeah. It is.”

“Alright.”

“Really?” He looks gobsmacked.

“Yeah,” I say, and I can’t help but huff a little laugh, even though it’s the farthest thing from funny. “If it’s that important, then I agree. I wish it could be different, but I’m not the Saviour anymore.”

“Wow. You really have changed.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Is that the only reason you came to see me? Or were you here to get a kiss before work?”

“Maybe just a quick one,” he says, and he doesn’t even seem annoyed when he’s late.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s my first day of work at Fortesque’s and it’s barely eleven o’clock when the shop gets so busy that I don’t notice the time passing. At 2:30, Louise throws me a big smile. “Go take a break, Harry. You’ve been going steady since this morning.”

Ellen gives me a big mug of tea and a cheese butty, and I gratefully escape through the back door. The Fortesques have a little courtyard which overlooks Knockturn Alley, and I enjoy myself watching the people bustle along and munching my sandwich. The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Florean looking hesitant. “Harry, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Oh?” 

I get to my feet, and he says, “She’s a bit upset. Do you mind if I send her back here?”

“Um, sure, thanks,” I say, and a few minutes later, Mill appears, lacking her usual smile.

“Mill?”

“I’ve been sacked,” she says shortly.

My skin goes prickly, and a strange ache causes my stomach to lurch. “Mill, that’s…”

“It’s complete shite is what it is,” she says angrily.

“What was their reason?”

“Budget cuts, which, of course, is complete crap, because they’ve just hired from the newest crop of graduates. It's because I was a Slytherin.”

“It’s that fucker, Smith.”

“I think so,” she says miserably. “I was being so careful, Harry. And this couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Vi’s preschool fees are due in a week, and…” She sighs. “I could go home to Mother and Father, but I was working so hard to get away from all of that Pureblood traditional crap.”

“No, don’t be stupid, Mill. Don’t go home, not if you don’t want to. Don’t worry about the fees.”

“Oh, okay then,” she sneers.

“No, I mean it. Let me help you.”

“Harry. No.”

“Listen, I still don’t have all of my memories back, and I probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway, so if you’re going to tell me that this breaks some sort of Slytherin law or something, I don’t want to hear it.” I push my hair out of my eyes, frustrated. I’m sure that Draco or someone would have all of the right words to say to solve this problem, but I’m certainly not Draco. “Listen,” I say finally, a bit harsher than I expected. “I’ve been to see the goblins, Mill, and…ah fuck, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an arsehole. I’m rich, Mill. I have a stupid amount of money that I didn’t earn, and that I didn’t even know about four days ago. Just take some fucking money, and stop worrying about it, okay?”

“You really are just like this,” she says, a funny look on her face. It’s similar to what Draco said to me before.

“Why do people keep saying that? I guess? Just take the money, and go take Violet to the zoo or something, okay?” I want this problem to go away, and I really don't want to talk about it. If I'm being honest, I kind of want Mill to go away, because she's got a bunch of pent up emotion going, and I don't really know how to deal.

“Harry, this is…I’ll never be able to repay you,” she says, her voice wavering on the edge of tears.

I have no idea how I would deal with a crying Millicent, so I just say, “Listen, old me would have gone into the Ministry, caused a fuss and gotten you your job back. And then rode away on a Chimera or something. I have no desire to do that, so just take some stupid money and let’s not ever talk about it again, okay?”

“It’s almost like you’re a Slytherin,” she says, but the smile is back, and I’m relieved. I grab a rumpled parchment from my robes, and she hands me a self-inking quill. A scribbled note to the goblins later, and she leaves for Gringotts, looking relieved, but still gutted. I don’t know how she’ll find another job, but at least I can help her survive while she does.

I wonder again what foolish, hero Harry Potter would have done. By every indication, I would never have let this baby Death Eaters thing go. I would have had an enormous fight with Draco about it, and then I would have made Mill uncomfortable by all of the publicity over her sacking. I can’t say that what I’m doing now is better…it’s certainly not helping people like Pansy Parkinson, but I don’t even remember her. Why should I lose things in my life, things I like, for the sake of people I don’t even know?

It’s only later, as the thoughts are still running through my mind, that I think about Hermione and cringe. It’s not the same thing, not exactly; we fought because I resented her implication that I can’t make my own decisions, not because I was determined to help the Slytherins. But I was taking a moral stand against someone who I know loves me. And I did make her feel awkward by asking her to help with Parkinson. Fuck. I’m not totally in the right, and the realization annoys me.

Which is why I’m standing on Hermione and Ron’s porch after my shift, feeling awkward and unsure how to deal with all of this. I wonder, briefly and futilely, if I would have been better at this with memories intact. Hermione answers the door, and looks at me warily. “Hi,” she finally says. Her voice is small and unsure, and I’m terrified for a moment that she’s going to cry.

“Hi,” I reply. “Can I come in? Talk?”

She nods, and steps backwards to let me in. Ron and Rose are playing exploding snap, but he just grins approvingly and waves us into the kitchen. I can hear him telling her that Uncle Harry will play with them after they get the boring grownup stuff out of the way. This must be par for the course, because she doesn’t complain at all.

We’re British, so we don’t say anything until the tea is made. She toys with the teaspoon, unable to meet my eyes. I resolve to be brave. “Hermione-”

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry!”

“I’m sorry too. I wasn’t being fair to you. And I put you in an awkward position when I asked you to help with Pansy. It was wrong of me.”

“I know I’m bossy, Harry. I’ve always been that way. But I care so much about you, and I’d feel so guilty if I didn’t make sure you understood things before you made a decision.”

I’m not really sure where guilt comes into the equation, but we’re making ground towards reconciliation, so I say, “Maybe we just leave it there? That we both acted poorly, and we’re both sorry?” 

“Can we? I miss you, Harry.”

“I miss you too.” I don’t, not really, but there’s some reason why old me loved her like a sister, and my instincts tell me it’s worthwhile to find out. She has very kind eyes, after all. Besides, I do like Ron, and I won’t see him much if I’m fighting with his wife. “But Hermione, I don’t want us to make up and find ourselves in the same situation in a week. I appreciate your advice, but I do want to make my own decisions.”

“I get that. It’s hard for me to adjust, because you never used to want to decide anything. I got into the habit of telling you what to do. I guess I just didn’t expect that you’d suddenly stop wanting that.” She smiles at me. “It’s good though. I wanted…want you to be more in charge of your life.” She stands up and throws her arms around me. She might be bossy, but she gives amazing hugs. As she sits back down, I can see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “So I heard that things didn’t work out with Malfoy.”

“No, they’re fine. Is that going to be a problem?”

“You’re back together?”

“Yeah. He has a baby, but he doesn’t have a wife. It was a surrogate. Sort of. He wasn’t lying to me.”

“Oh.” Something in her tone makes me tense. This is a test, I realize, one that I didn’t mean to set. If she really meant what she said, she won’t try to talk me out of things with Draco. She seems to realize the same thing, because she says, “I did look into things with Parkinson. It was strange. I sent a few inquiries, and then, suddenly, I got an owl that said she’d been released.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s strange, but she’s freed, so I let it go.”

“Thanks, Hermione. I won’t ask you to do anything else.”

“It’s the least I could do, Harry.”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip. Pansy’s abrupt release just makes things seem even more suspicious. But, Draco asked me not to intervene, and Pansy’s out anyways, and even though I’m not certain that Hermione will manage to go a day, let alone the rest of our lives, without bossing me, maybe this is one of those things that a smart man would leave be.

And I am, right? A smart man? I want to be. Still, I can’t help but poke the bear one last time. “Hermione, do you know a bloke named Zach Smith?”

She crinkles her forehead. “Yeah. We went to Hogwarts with him. He’s in Rehab and Prob now. Bit of a prat, if I recall correctly. Why?”

“I dunno. I met him last week, and he gave me a weird feeling.”

Unexpectedly, she grins. “Well, Draco Malfoy gave you a weird feeling every single year at Hogwarts, and look where you are now.”

I give up. If she knows something about Smith, she’s way too good at bluffing for me to see through it. Besides, this is the first time she’s made a joke. “Well, if I start dating Smith, you have my permission to intervene. In fact, I need you to agree right now, that you will never allow it.”

Her smile widens. “That’s all I need, Harry, parameters. Very well, I promise.”

A week passes, with no sign of my missing memories. I’m beginning to be resolved to the idea that they’ll never return, but things are good, and maybe I’m better off without them. The missing magic is, frankly, an enormous pain, but I’m making slow and steady progress through the spell books, and Hermione arranges for a mad witch named Luna to come and tutor me when I’m not working at the ice cream shop. After a few days of spell lessons, I start to wonder if maybe Hermione’s still mad at me after all. I’m warned ahead of time that Luna is proficient at spellcasting, but not to listen to her insane stories. And they are. Insane, that is. I’m never certain if Luna’s being serious or not. It seems that she’s quite interested in magical creatures, but I can never see the ones she points out, and if this is a prank, it’s a damned elaborate one.

Despite all that, I’m collecting a fair amassment of spells, and it’s nice to be able to clean up spilled tea with my wand. And, when she’s not waxing rhapsodic about Blubbering Humdingers, Luna’s loads of fun. She invents all sorts of games to make the lessons go faster, including her favourite, one called ‘Secret or Memory’. The rules are simple, if I cast a spell properly, she tells me a secret or memory, and if I fail to cast it, I owe her one. I try to explain to her that I don’t have any memories, but she tilts her head at me and smiles, and so I just make stuff up. It seems to suit us both just fine, and I enjoy the challenge of inventing new memories every time I flub a spell.

I’m nearly through telling Luna about my fabricated experience raising goats in Ireland, the summer after fourth year, when an owl arrives and taps on the window. Recognizing it as Draco’s, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, and I rush to let it in. I untie the letter hastily, but my smile falters a bit as I read it.

“Bad news, Harry?” Luna has a nice voice. It’s restful, and unobtrusive.

“Yeah. Just some plans that fell through.” I try to hide my disappointment, but her smile is sympathetic.

“I’m sure he’s disappointed too, but he has a lot on his mind,” she says softly. “He likes you very much, you know.” I look at her in surprise. I haven’t told Luna that I’m gay, and I didn’t bother mentioning Draco either. I feel like Hermione would have warned me if Luna was a mind-reader, though, so maybe she’s just scarily perceptive. Funny though, that my two best friends were gobsmacked that I’m gay, and Luna seems to have known all along.

We return to the summoning spell, but my casting is sloppy. “Harry,” Luna says, with her mild-mannered version of impatience. “I can barely see you for the Wrackspurts. Do we need to reschedule?”

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I say. She’s awfully good to be helping me like this.

“You aren’t. I think we just need to focus on something else. You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset, exactly,” I reply. “I just feel…heavy.”

“Guilty?”

That surprises me, especially because, as I consider it, it’s true, sort of. “Kind of, but not exactly. It’s like I’ve forgotten things, but I’m not sure what. I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything to be guilty about.”

She laughs. “And when has that ever stopped you before? You’ve always carried the weight of your responsibilities on your shoulders.”

“But I don’t have any, not anymore. I quit my job at the Ministry. My biggest responsibility now is making sure that the ice cream scoops are cleaned after each serving.”

Luna’s shrug communicates a lot. “True,” she says, her big eyes riveted on me, “but just because something isn’t officially your job, that doesn’t mean you feel like it’s unofficially your duty.”

I tuck the declaration away in my mind to consider later. I feel like it’s some sort of hint to old Harry. “I don’t want any duties, though. I’ve done enough.”

“You have,” she agrees. “More than.”

“But I still feel like I have an itch I can’t reach,” I admit. “I know that there’s something going on at the Ministry. I don’t know who to trust. And as much as I want to just walk away from it….” Luna’s expression is incredibly kind, and it encourages me to continue. I give her some very broad strokes about my suspicions about Smith, about Mill, about the fact that someone’s targeting the children of Death Eaters. “I think my life was kind of awful, before, though. And I want to be selfish, and do what I want. I don’t want to be in danger for the sake of people that I don’t even remember.”

“Poor Harry,” she says, patting my arm. “It must be awfully confusing when you have so many ingrained responses, but no context for why you’re feeling that way.”

I don’t know exactly what she means, but I am confused. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the ability to do anything,” I say. “ The people that are doing this are powerful, politically. I wouldn’t know the first thing about trying to outsmart them. Someone was powerful enough to steal all of my memories. I don’t think that a summoning spell is going to be enough, if I decided to fight them.”

“You know,” she says, her kind face hardening a little, “one of the things I always found interesting about you, was how you insisted on doing things without help. It’s always been this way. But you’ve never needed to go it alone. And you’ve always been more successful when you let your friends help you.”

“I don’t even know who my friends are right now,” I grumble. “I’m not sure who to trust.”

“Really?” Her head cocked, she reminds me of a little, curious bird. “You’ve always had good judgement.”

There’s been something that’s been nagging at me for a while, and I’m having no luck in figuring it out on my own. Despite her strangeness, Luna seems inherently trustworthy, so I decide to confide in her. “Luna, I think Hermione might be caught up in this stuff at the Ministry.”

I don’t expect her to laugh at me, but she does, peal after peal of delighted, musical laughter. It goes on for such a long time that I start to regret saying anything. I can feel my cheeks heat, and I look down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” Luna finally gasps, just as I’m considering how I can kick her out of the flat when she knows more magic than I do. “Honestly, Harry, I don’t mean to make fun.” Her face darkens for a moment. “I know what it’s like when people make fun of what you believe.” She reaches out and touches my face, her hand gentle, and I risk looking up at her. She’s solemn now, and her eyes blaze with sincerity. “You poor, sweet thing. I didn’t realize just how confused you were. Hermione isn’t involved in a conspiracy to target anyone.”

“How do you know?”

She sighs. “I think that you’ve been done a disservice. You’ve been given the story of your life, in broad strokes, but none of the context. Tell me what you know of the war.”

“Power-mad maniac,” I say. “Stomped around England with a bunch of deluded followers who wreaked havoc. Listened to some mad bint spouting nonsense in a bar and declared me his nemesis.”

“In a nutshell, yes,” she says with a smile. “But that’s exactly what I mean. Why did Voldemort gain any followers, if he was as mad as that?”

“I have no idea. Fear? Intimidation? The hissing?”

“Worse,” Luna replies. “He used the insecurity of the Purebloods to fuel his rise to power. Some of his followers were fearful that allowing Muggleborn witches and wizards into our world would expose us to those who might persecute us. Some were terrified that they’d have their assumptions challenged. The members of the Sacred Twenty-eight were viewed as special, more powerful, and they raised their children to believe that too. When a little Muggleborn witch got higher grades than everyone else, it was a threat.”

“Hermione?” She nods.

“Hermione is brilliant,” she continues. “She knew from her first day on the train that she’d be discriminated against because of her heritage. And she’s brave. She faced the hatred head-on, and she met their eyes, and she advocated for sentient creatures who didn’t have the same rights. She wouldn’t be part of discrimination like that, Harry. She just wouldn’t.”

She seems pretty certain, and it did seem inconsistent with everything I know about her so far, but there’s still a small twinge of instinct that pinches my gut. “I suppose you’re right,” I finally say, and Luna beams at me, glad to have settled things. If they’re not totally settled, well, I suppose that’s my fault. 

Anyway, what she says next firmly occupies my thoughts, so I don’t have time to worry about Hermione anymore. “It isn’t your job, Harry. Everyone has just gotten in the habit of telling you it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s ludicrous, really. Imagine if someone took a shy, neglected little kid, and threw him into a world that he had no preparation for, and then told him that it was his birthright to save it? And then the people who were responsible for taking care of him let him face danger and true evil, year after year, and did the bare minimum to help him. Then, when the stakes were so high that he couldn’t possibly refuse, they told him that he needed to walk to his death to save the only people who had ever been kind to him. Even if you don’t remember it, I imagine your built-in sense of obligation is pushing you to act.”

“Well fuck that,” I declare. Luna has put words to the sense of dissatisfied malaise that I’ve been feeling since I heard my life’s history spelled out. “I don’t owe anyone anything.”

“You don’t,” Luna agrees.

So that’s that, then. I should be feeling relieved. This isn’t my job, and it isn’t my fault, and so why do I feel like I’m screwing it all up?

Three days go by, and I don’t hear a thing from Draco. I’m irritated by how much it bothers me. I tell myself that it’s nothing; Draco did say that he was going to be busy when he cancelled our plans earlier in the week. But the lack of contact niggles at me, and when I stop by the bank on my lunch break to say hello, the Welcome Goblin tells me that he’s off. In desperation, I finally scrawl a message on a scrap of parchment, and send it with one of the Fortesque’s delivery owls. The lack of response sends my spirits lower. As the week winds down, I accept that I must have read the situation wrong. He’s not interested.

As I sit in my flat, feeling a bit sorry for myself, I resolve to go out, get blinding drunk, and sleep with the hottest man I can find. I war with the ennui that comes of being so disappointed and the motivation to lash out and hurt the one who hurt me. It’s a fool’s game, though. Draco obviously doesn’t care if I sleep with someone else, and he’s the only one I want. A knock at the door interrupts my brisk bout of staring out the window, and as I stumble to the door, I’m surprised that it’s already getting dark. It seems that I’d spent a lot more time than I expected, lost in my thoughts.

I open the door and regard the stranger standing on the opposite side. She has tiny features, close set, and her nose turns up at the end. Her dark hair is long, hanging lank against her face. She glares at me, so I stare back, an eyebrow raised, until she says, “Potter.”

“Yes,” I finally reply, when she doesn’t elaborate.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I consider this. She’s not looking at me as though we’re friends, but she also doesn’t seem like she’s about to kill me, or take more of my memories. “I don’t know,” I say eventually. “Why do you want me to?”

She huffs impatiently. “Honestly, Potter, we need to talk. Stop being so suspicious.”

I laugh. “Forgive me, but having all of your memories wiped out makes you a bit less inclined to invite hostile strangers into your sitting room. Who are you exactly?”

“Oh,” she says. “Right, I forgot about that. I’m Pansy Parkinson.”

“Oh!” I say. “Yes, I suppose you should come in.” I step back, and she gives me a thoughtful look as she steps inside. “How are you? How did you get out?”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright. Do you want tea?” I’m at a loss, in many ways. I know very little of this woman, other than that she tried to hand me over to Voldemort, and that she is being forced into choices nobody should have to make. She isn’t very friendly though, so I expect that she doesn’t like me all that much. Which begs the question I ask next. “Why are you here?”

“No tea,” she says shortly. “I’m here for Draco.”

“Draco?” All of the hope that had dissipated starts to bubble back. “He isn’t here. Is everything okay?”

“No, you idiot. I know where he is. And everything isn’t okay, actually. He’ll kill me when he finds out I’m here, but there’s nobody else who will help us.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Scorpius. They’ve taken Draco’s son, Potter, and I need you to get him back.”

There isn’t much to say after that. I agree to be taken to Draco, immediately. I’m a bit annoyed that Draco hasn’t told me himself. After all, I’m an Auror, if formerly, and I must have some connections.

We arrive at Malfoy Manor, and the wards accept us immediately, prompting me to wonder exactly what Pansy’s relationship with Draco consists of, and why he wasn’t helping her when she was arrested. There are more important things to think about though, and she leads me to a sitting room, where a hunched, defeated figure slumps in an armchair by the fire. All of my earlier irritation dissolves when, hearing our entry, Draco looks up. 

His face is grey, and lined, and his hair is like something I’ve never seen. I imagine he’s been pulling at it. At the sight of me, he dissolves into tears, and despite my feeling about crying, I hurry to his side. “Draco,” I say, pulling him close. He weeps into my neck, harsh, barking sobs that seem to go on forever while I stand, awkwardly patting his back. He gains control of himself eventually, however, and produces a handkerchief which he uses to mop his face. He looks over at Pansy, and his expression hardens. “Pans, I told you not to.”

“I don’t care, Draco. We can’t just keep sitting here, hoping that someone’s going to reach out. Potter has more connections than anyone else. It’s stupid not to use them.”

“She’s right,” I say. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner. How long has Scorpius been gone?”

“Three days,” Draco says, and his voice is a broken thing, as rough as shards of crystal. “They left a note, telling me not to tell anyone, and said they’d be in touch, but there’s been nothing.”

“Who?” I ask. “Who’s taken him?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice hollow. 

“But why? You live a quiet life, right? You do your curse breaking, and you raise your son?”

He looks as though he’s about to tell me something more, but Pansy makes a strangled noise, and they exchange a conversation conducted entirely through glares. He sinks his head into his hands.

“Draco,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.” I have no idea if that’s true, and I hope that nobody asks for any details. I look around suddenly, remembering that Draco doesn’t live here alone. “Where’s your Mother?”

“She’s asleep,” Draco sighs. “I’ve been dosing her with calming draughts and dreamless sleep.” I nod. He looks across the room, at the woman who has been watching the exchange with interest. “Pansy, why did you bring Harry here?”

“You need help. You don’t have the political influence you once did, and they’re obviously not going to contact you. This has gone on long enough.”

She’s right. But… “Pansy, I’m not sure I’m the best choice to help. I don’t remember anything, and my magical skills are on par with a third-year.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she sniffs. “You’re Potter.”

“And what do you expect him to do?” Draco demands, his face pale and angry. “Ride into the Ministry on a Dragon?”

“I don’t know, Draco!” She’s shouting now, and standing, her feet wide apart in a combative stance. “He’s the hero, isn’t he? Why the fuck are you shagging the Chosen One if not to swoop in and save the day?”

“Oh spare me,” I say. “I’m nobody’s hero. We don’t even know who’s taken Scorpius, and we’re wasting time arguing about it.” I feel helpless, and desperate to do something, but I haven’t the faintest idea where to start.

“Potter, you figured out how to find the Philosopher’s Stone when you were an ickle firstie.” Pansy doesn’t seem to be giving up on this.

“That’s because I had friends helping me,” I protest, and then my brain finally catches up. It’s time to fall back on the secret to my success. “Draco, can I call Hermione and Ron?”

He looks wretched. “The more people who know about this, the better chance they’ll do something awful to Scorpius.”

“I know,” I soothe. “I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think that they could help. It’s the only idea I have.”

“Alright,” he sighs.

The floo call to Ron and Hermione isn’t exactly promising. Hermione flatly refuses to help Draco, and Ron says that he’ll only come if Hermione does. I toss more floo powder into the flames and step through. Hermione is wearing stretch pants and a battered jumper, and her hair is wrapped around a pencil that holds it out of her face. It’s clear that I’m interrupting some of her rare time off from work. Her face is pinched, and I know that I’m relying heavily on the relationship that’s still a bit rocky. “Hermione,” I say, grabbing her hands and squeezing them tight. “He’s just a baby. Even if you hate Draco, and I’m not saying you don’t have every right to however you feel, would you really feel okay with someone hurting a defenceless baby?”

She glares at me for a moment, and then says, “No. Of course I wouldn’t feel okay about it.” She rattles off rapid-fire instructions for Ron to go fetch Molly to watch Rose, and disappears in search of some books she thinks will help.

It doesn’t take long before we’re back at the Manor, and Hermione is practically vibrating with tension. They told me about Malfoy Manor, about how Bellatrix Lestrange tortured Hermione, while Ron and I paced frantically in the dungeon. How the brave actions of a house elf whose name I don’t even remember saved us all. This is not a comfortable place for Hermione to visit. This is a visible symbol of what side we each fought for, the pain that we’ve all caused one another. Knowing that there’s no way to neutralize the situation, I pick up the well-loved baby blanket that Draco has been alternately clutching and weeping into. “Hermione, this is Scorpius’ blanket.” I thrust it into her hands, somehow knowing that the tangible evidence of the innocent whose life is at stake will stimulate her maternal instincts. “Can we use this to trace him somehow?”

She gives me a bit of a superior look, but underneath it, I can see the fire of a warrior who protects those who can’t protect themselves. “No, Harry. It doesn’t work that way.”

I shrug. “Magic’s funny, though, right? There has to be something.”

Her gaze goes a little faraway, and it’s clear she’s thinking hard. As she bites her lip, I immediately know a few things. She knows a way to find Scorpius. She’s hesitant, so it’s either risky or immoral. And she’s going to tell us no matter what. “What is it?” My voice is quiet as I ask, but she still jumps a mile.

“There’s a ritual I read about. It’s very old. Dark Magic. Blood magic.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything,” Draco says, and he sounds like a child making bargains in the dark to chase the monsters away.

“It hasn’t been performed for centuries,” Hermione continues. “It has a heavy cost.”

“Anything,” Draco repeats, his voice stronger. “It takes magic? All of my magic? It doesn’t matter.”

She looks at him for a very long time. Finally, she admits, “No, not all. About a third. It’s a direct petition to Mother Magic, and if you fail in your petition, she’ll take the magic anyway, and then refuse to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll do it.” Draco casts a desperate look at me and then at Hermione. “It’s my _son_ , Granger. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

I try desperately to think about how having a third of your magic taken away would feel. Magic is a strange concept for me, having no context of experience. I feel it, the deep, comforting humming through my veins, and the rush of power as it travels through my wand, but, like nearly everything else in my life, there’s no grounding for it. Just like I’d be disappointed, but unbroken if Hermione, or Ron were no longer around, I wouldn’t exactly grieve the loss of my magic. 

Draco, on the other hand, looks dreadful, as though the cost of getting his son back requires him to sacrifice an arm, or the ability to speak. There’s a fire in his eyes, though, and I know in my bones that there’s no price too great.

Hermione seems to see the same thing, because she nods, and says, “Hang on, I need to look it up again.” She rummages through a faded bag, which looks like it once was a beaded evening bag. It’s impossibly large on the inside, and her whole arm disappears inside before she frowns and snaps, “Accio Blood Magic Grimoire.” There’s a muted sound of things toppling over, and she emerges from the bag with a book that looks rather like a textbook. It’s a bit disappointing, actually. I’d imagined that a ‘Grimoire’ would be more impressive.

Draco obviously thinks so too, because he raises an eyebrow in Hermione’s direction. She flushes. “I copied it,” she says. “And don’t you dare judge me, because that’s nothing compared to doing a Blood Magic ritual.”

“I’m actually rather impressed,” Draco answers, and for a moment they exchange a grin that’s just a little wobbly on the edges. “Will you teach me the duplicating charm sometime?”

“‘Course.” Hermione is leafing through the book, and Draco is peering over her shoulder. They go over the ritual together, and Hermione says, “I assume you have a ritual room?” Draco nods. “Alright, well, if you want to show me where it is, maybe Parkinson can help gather the things we’ll need.”


	8. Chapter 8

Things happen very quickly after that, and before I know it, we’re standing in a stone room with symbols etched onto the floor. There’s a golden chalice, wrapped in Scorpius’ baby blanket sitting atop the symbol in the centre. I spare a moment to observe, a little pettily, that we _are_ using the baby blanket in the ritual to find Scorpius, even if symbolically. Draco wears a simple linen set of robes, and he’s so pale, standing there, his hands nervously twisting. Hermione sets the bowls of herbs atop some of the runes, and Pansy hands her a silver dagger. I note that the hilt is intricately carved in the shape of a snake.

Hermione incants, and the words don’t make sense to me, but they’re rich and melodious as they drip off her tongue. Draco uses the dagger to slice his palm open, and lets his blood drain into the chalice. Hermione’s voice echoes sure and strong, and next to me, I hear Ron’s breathing, harshly. He's nervous, probably for Hermione, based on what he's said about Slytherins in the past. I don’t know exactly what’s at stake here if we screw this up, but Luna’s made it clear that magic isn’t risk-free. “We call upon Mother Magic to hear this man’s petition!” Her voice makes the chamber ring, and then there’s complete silence. The air seems to grow heavy as we wait. I want to shift my weight, but I don’t dare. Suddenly, in a blinding flash of light, a ghostlike figure appears. Her translucent hair is long and she wears robes that are similar to Draco’s.

“Which of my children wishes to make the petition?” Her voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It contains galaxies, and it’s loving, but lonely.

“I do,” Draco says, his voice deep and firm.

“What do you seek, beloved?”

“My son has been taken. I wish to gift you with some of my magic, and petition you to lead me to him.”

She considers him for a long moment, looking directly at him. “Your motives are pure,” she says finally, and Draco and Hermione both seem to sag with relief. “The surrender of your magic is a great sacrifice. Have you searched your heart to ensure that you wish this?”

“I have,” Draco says simply. “I would give anything to have him come back safely.”

“And you know that I cannot guarantee his safety? If I accept your offering, I can lead you to him, but he may not be whole.”

“I understand.” Draco swallows, his face a study in grief. “If he is dead, I would still wish to bring him to his ancestral home, to bury him with kin.”

“Very well,” she says. Draco’s features are suffused with relief, and then a single moment of loss.

For a single, insane moment, I consider yelling, “Wait!”, and offering up my magic instead, but of course I don't. It would be stupid. Besides, the last thing I need is Mother freaking Magic pissed off at me. Instead, with another blinding flash of light, Mother Magic disappears, leaving Draco panting and prostate on the floor, and a golden parchment where the chalice was. Magic is freaky, and impressive. I also note absently that Mother Magic didn't tell him that she'd be taking Draco's _cup_ along with his magic, but I'm sure he's got plenty more in this giant house.

The parchment turns out to be a map, and Hermione and Draco study it, both of their heads bent over the table. Hermione races back to her bag, and pulls out a battered book called “London AZ”. Draco eyes it in confusion. “It’s a street map,” Hermione explains, and she quickly flips through the pages. “I’m nearly certain…”. She carefully examines a page, and refers back to the golden parchment, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two. “Malfoy,” she says evenly, “do you care to explain why your son is at the Ministry of Magic?”

“Merlin,” Draco wheezes, and he seems to shrink a little, his shoulders hunching. He’s breathing fast, and when his eyes meet mine, they’re filled with panic. Without warning, he whirls around to face Pansy, and shouts, “We were so careful! How did they find out?”

“Draco,” I say, stepping closer and putting a hand on his arm. “I want to help you, but I can’t, not if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t trust anyone,” he says wildly. “You’ll turn me in, they’ll kill Scorpius!”

“Draco,” Pansy says quietly. “We’re in the shit. If you want Scorpius back, I don’t think you have any choice. Tell them.”

So he does. “After the war, the moral backlash on Death Eaters was enormous, as you know.” He looks at me and amends, “As most of you know. They imprisoned anyone who was a Death Eater, and it was only your testimony, Harry, that managed to free Mother and I. Our reputation was in tatters, and they seized a great deal of our assets in reparation, but we were free, and, after our probation, the Goblins were the only ones who would hire me. Goblins don’t really care much about human matters; they only cared that I could do my job.”

He casts a look at Pansy, and continues, “But we were very lucky, in comparison. The Ministry was eager to ensure that there was never another Dark Lord, and so the punishments that had been given to Death Eaters didn’t seem enough. Soon, they started targeting their children, putting them all on probation, but making it impossible for them to survive.” I’m starting to feel impatient. I know all of this.

“How did they manage to keep that a secret?” Hermione asks. “You’d think they’d want the public to know that they were taking definitive action against those who were Dark-aligned.”

Draco looks at her. “They knew that if certain people got wind that they were targeting people who had committed, at most, misdemeanour crimes, while underage, that the backlash would be enormous. Do you really think that if you, or Harry, or any other Gryffindor had gotten wind of this, that you’d simply let it happen?”

“No,” Hermione admits. “But I think that public opinion would still have swayed in the direction of the Ministry.”

“So did they,” Draco agrees. “Which is why they passed a series of sneaky bills within the Wizengamot to ensure that what they were doing obeyed the letter of the law. When some of my old housemates started to approach me, I helped them, in secret. I smuggled people out of the country, and sold some of their family heirlooms to discretely paid fines, using the Goblins to avoid being caught. I’ve been very careful to ensure that nobody knew that I was helping them. When they arrested Pansy on trumped up charges, I acted rashly, wasn’t as cautious. Obviously someone figured out that I was the one who was helping. And when they realized that I was seeing Harry, they got worried. They sent me a warning last week to break ties with him, and to keep my nose clean, or they’d make me pay.”

His face crumbles. “I knew that the people who were threatening me were involved with the Ministry, but I never knew who, and I didn’t think they’d be so blatant about what they were doing. I never dreamed that they’d take Scorpius and when they did, I never thought they’d take him to the Ministry. I thought that it was someone who was acting of their own volition, someone who was taking things into their own hands. I can’t believe that this is all officially sanctioned.”

“It’s that fucker, Smith!” I yell.

Everyone looks at me for a minute, but I don’t bother to explain. I really hate that guy, though.

“The Ministry is huge,” I say. “How can we know where they’re keeping him?”

“I think I know,” Hermione says, and her expression is furious…and guilty. “He’s in the Department of Mysteries. It’s the only place he could be.”

“Then let’s go,” I say. 

And so we do. Ron and Hermione, still clutching her beaded handbag in one hand and her wand in the other. Pansy, her face fierce beneath her hooded cloak. And Draco, clutching me tightly as he side-alongs me. I consider protesting that I can do this on my own, especially in light of the fact that he’s down a third of magic, but the panicked, pained look in his eyes convinces me otherwise. Nobody’s bothered to tell me what can go happen if an apparation goes wrong. How bad could it be? It turns out not to matter, because the trip goes fine, even if I stagger around trying not to vomit afterwards.

The Ministry is deserted at this time of night. The night watchman stands as though he’s going to question us, but catches sight of Hermione, and nods acknowledgement. The lift takes us to level nine, and Hermione exits through the doors the moment they open. By the time we’ve all filed out, she’s sprinting down the halls. Draco hauls arse after her, and the three of us pursue. Ron looks decidedly uncomfortable as we approach a black door at the end of the hall, but at my questioning shrug, he just grimaces, and follows Draco and Hermione. It’s even creepier as we reach a circular room with twelve doors. Hermione narrows her eyes and confidently hauls one of them open. We follow her inside, and Ron finally pipes up. “What room is this one, ‘Mione?”

“It’s new,” she says shortly. “It’s called the Room of Inheritance.”

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Ron mutters. I can’t help but agree. 

At first glance, it looks like a pretty standard office, with desks, and bookshelves, and a battered looking plant standing by the spelled window. But Hermione puts her hand on a book, and the room shimmers for a moment, before it disappears completely, replaced by a hallway. Hermione grimly stalks down it, the rest of us close behind. She opens a few doors, but after looking inside each one, she turns away. Finally, she reaches the door at the very end of the hall, and we step into what looks a lot like a hospital room. There are beds with curtains around them, and it’s brightly lit. A series of cabinets along the wall are closed tight. There’s a faint sound behind one of the curtains, and Hermione draws her wand before pulling the curtain along its tracks. 

There’s an older man standing over a cot, waving his wand and muttering something to a quill that hovers over his head, scribbling onto a parchment. As he hears the curtain, he turns around. “Unspeakable,” he says mildly.

“Unspeakable,” Hermione says back, her voice dark.

“This is quite unorthodox, you know. The Department of Mysteries is hardly the place for a field trip.”

Draco is practically vibrating with impatience, trying to see around the body of the unspeakable, but whatever’s in the cot is surrounded by an opaque bubble, and it’s impossible to see what…or who, is inside. “Where is Scorpius Malfoy?” Hermione sounds completely badass, and I’m impressed in spite of myself.

“He’s quite unharmed, Unspeakable. And this is not your project.”

“This entire Division is under my purview, Unspeakable. Answer my question.”

“Here, of course,” The Unspeakable waves his wand, and the bubble dissipates, revealing a tiny, blonde baby. His eyes are closed, and he’s very still, but I’m relieved to see his chest rising and falling with his breaths. Draco makes a strangled sound and tenses. Pansy holds his arm tightly.

“What have you done?”

“Unspeakable, of course you know that I can’t share any knowledge of what I’m working on. Particularly not in front of civilians. It’s most inappropriate.”

“I submit a challenge.” Hermione’s voice is forceful as hell now, and the Unspeakable freezes.

“Arbitrated by?” His voice is thin now.

“Lord Harry Potter, Order of Merlin First Class.” Five heads whip around to look at her, and her face is furious, immovable.

“Hermione?” My voice is not forceful at all. “What’s going on?”

“The Department of Mysteries is outside of the Wizengamot and the Minister’s purview, officially. However, we experiment with arcane branches of powerful magic. In order to ensure that any one Unspeakable doesn’t breach our oaths of ethics, their peer is entitled to challenge their research. There are a handful of people who can arbitrate the challenge, including a recipient of the Order of Merlin. Like you.” She looks, for a moment, as though she’s just uncovered one of the wonders of the world. I decide to ask her later about the ‘Lord’ thing, as I’m certain I would have remembered if anyone had told me that. I fiercely tell myself that this is _not_ the time to daydream what a Lord can do. “Now, Unspeakable. Do you accept the challenge, or will you cease your research and leave the Department of Mysteries?”

“You bitch.” The man’s face is puce, and he looks as though he’s about to murder us all. “You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re dooming our society!”

“Oh spare me the dramatics, Wendell,” she snaps. He gasps. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe he’s embarrassed that his name is so _weak_. I imagine that, with a title like ‘Unspeakable’, first names aren’t to be revealed, and it spikes a bolt of vindictive joy in me, even as I’m grappling with the disappointment that I was wrong about Smith. (That fucker.) Hermione goes to the cupboard, spells it open with a wand, and removes a tiny vial filled with clear liquid, and a crystalline orb. She taps the orb with her wand, and says, “Unspeakable Hermione Granger-Weasley, issuing a challenge to Unspeakable Wendell Bright.” She rattles of the date and time, and gestures Wendell into a nearby chair. He moves as though he’s compelled, each action jerky and automatic. The Department of Mysteries is truly weird, I decide. The moment he sits down, Draco and Pansy rush to Scorpius’ side and start casting spells on him.

Hermione places three drops of the liquid onto his tongue, and asks, “What is your full name?”

“Wendell Oliver Bright,” he says, but his voice has this weird dreamy quality.

“Did you steal my sandwich three weeks ago from the breakroom?”

“Yes,” he says, and it’s clear that he’s answering unwillingly.

“Verituserum’s working,” she says decisively, and then, as an aside to Bright, “You bastard.”

His glare in return is filthy. I wonder briefly if she's calling him a bastard for the kidnapping or the sandwich.

“What is the purpose of your research?”

“I wish to prevent the rise of the next Dark Lord,” he says.

“Describe your methods.”

He does. At length. There’s a great deal of complicated-sounding magical theory, but it boils down to the fact that the team within the Room of Inheritance researches all hereditary gifts, particularly those considered ‘dark’. This jerk's particular project identifies families known to be Dark Arts-aligned, and charts how many had been convicted of crimes, with an eye to proving that the Dark Arts create an insatiable thirst for power. They intend to understand the imbalance of power that exists between wizards…why some wizards are inordinately strong, while others aren’t, and if this power is directly correlates to successfully becoming a Dark Lord. I'm no magical theorist, but it's a shaky argument if you ask me. It feels like he's just cobbled together a bunch of ideas to try to pick on people. Which, I suppose, is sort of what he's done. I keep my analysis to myself.

Besides, to me, he's asking all the wrong questions. Why are they so focused on whether someone is Dark or not? People aren't bad or good, and people do all sorts of different things, for all sort of reasons. Do these lunatic wizards really put someone in one box or the other and decide that it makes them good or bad? I don’t remember meeting the man, but surely Dumbledore, Light wizard that he was, has a fair bit to answer for.

“And what,” Hermione said, “in your research led you to pursue this theory?”

“Well, it only makes sense,” Wendell says. “Bad blood will out.” For some reason, this sentence fills me with unsurmountable rage, but Ron catches a look at my face, and places a restraining hand on my arm.

“But there are a number of other social and political factors that need to be considered,” Hermione says, and that’s when I realize that she’s going to turn this into a _discussion_. 

“Hermione,” I say, “perhaps we could get to what he’s actually been doing?”

“Right,” she says. “Unspeakable, after conducting your research,” (this word is sneered so hard I think her face will stick that way), “what recommendations did you make?”

“I recommended to the Wizengamot that we remove all children from Dark-aligned homes, and that we work to restrict the actions of the adults who aren’t already in Azkaban.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ron says. “You can’t just preemptively punish people, if they haven’t done anything wrong. And you can’t take children away from their parents for no good reason!”

“That’s what the Wizengamot said,” Wallace said, a bit sulkily. 

“And then what did you do?” Hermione demands.

“I took matters into my own hands,” he replies. The potion is still giving his voice a strange, detached inflection, but I can still sense his emotion behind it.

“How?”

“I set up the Probation and Rehabilitation Department. A number of people, including the children of convicted Death Eaters did break laws during the war, even if it was just aiding and abetting their parents. They had to answer for their crimes, but public opinion didn’t support sending them to Azkaban. Nevertheless, nobody wanted them participating in an uprising, either to try to reincarnate Voldemort or to replace him, so I was able to convince the Wizengamot to create the department, and I personally supervised its efforts.”

“But that Department falls under the control of the Head Auror,” I say, secretly crowing to myself that I was right about that stupid department and stupid fucking _Smith_ being corrupt. Well...sort of right. I was close. Ish.

“Robards? Don’t make me laugh. He’s already retired, as far as I’m concerned. He was thrilled to have one less thing to think about. I got him to appoint my nephew as team lead, and then it became easy.”

“What was easy?” Hermione asks.

“It’s going to take me a few more years, but eventually, they’ll all be dead or in Azkaban. I just need to make sure that I stop the cycle of new children being born. They’re like rats, you know, these Death Eaters, they procreate quickly. To continue their filthy bloodlines.”

“Families that were Dark-aligned aren’t all Death Eaters!” Hermione protests, and I give her a look. Honestly, does she think she’s going to convince him?

“Why did you kidnap Scorpius Malfoy?” I ask angrily.

“Draco Malfoy is a marked Death Eater, and the scourge of wizardkind. He managed to avoid serving any punishment for his actions during the war, but only because of his political influence.” (This statement is accompanied by another filthy glare in my direction, and I can’t help but smirk back.) “It took me some time, but eventually I found out that he was trying to interfere in the management of the rest of his scummy friends, I sent him a few discrete warnings. The little bastard got more secretive after that, no doubt he used the filthy Goblins to cover his tracks. For a time, I was unable to stop him at all.”

He smiles then, but it’s chilling. “Then, I found out that he was dating Harry Potter himself. I couldn’t target him directly, not with the Chosen One being directly in his pocket. But that created bigger problems to solve. You, of all people know that we couldn’t allow someone like Potter to be tainted by Malfoy’s darkness.” He directs this last sentence directly to Hermione, and my instincts flare, and my bad feeling gets a lot worse when she flushes and looks guilty.

“I warned him again, but he didn’t listen. I don’t know what he did exactly, but somehow the Wizengamot intervened, and got that bitch freed.” He nods his head in Pansy’s direction. “I couldn’t wait any more. I breached his wards, and took his little _ratling_ , and brought him back here where I could stop the cycle.”

“What do you mean, stop the cycle?” My gut is churning, and I desperately hope that he doesn’t say what I think he’s going to.

“The Malfoy line will end with that brat. He won’t create any additional Death Eaters.”

I hadn’t realized that Draco was listening to the discussion, but he clearly was, because he’s across the room with his wand at Wendell’s throat before any of us can react. He growls, “What did you do?” 

“I ended your bloodline, Death Eater.”

“What?”

“Just a simple sterilization spell, Malfoy. Perfectly harmless.”

“I’ll kill you!” Draco seems to have abandoned his wand in favour of putting his hands around the man’s throat. Hermione steps forward and pushes him off.

“Draco, don’t,” she warns. “He needs to face justice for this. If you kill him, the rest of the people who are responsible will go unpunished.”

“You’re a fool,” Wendell remarks. “Do you really think that this isn’t sanctioned by the Wizengamot? By the Minister? I’m simply taking care of a lingering problem that the Ministry doesn’t want to face.”

“Kingsley knows about this?” I ask.

“Kingsley knows I’m handling the problem. He doesn’t trouble himself with the trifling details. Plausible deniability and all. But rest assured, if the Ministry is turning a blind eye to Department of Probation and Rehabilitation, they won’t be any quicker to step in on the good work I’m doing.”

“You’re vile,” Hermione says.

“And you’re disgusting, Granger. You’re quick to assume the moral high ground, as though you know best, about house elves, and your precious Order of the Phoenix, and yet you stop short of doing anything that will have a lasting impact. Your hands are too clean to sully with doing the hard work to ensure that we stay safe.

“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs?” Her voice drips with scorn.

“Something like that. But I wonder what would happen to your reputation if everyone knew about how far you actually would go to make sure that you keep everyone in their pre-appointed little box?” He laughs, but it’s emotionless and hollow. “Honestly, girl? You think you can cling to your high horse after what you’ve done? Does your precious Saviour have any idea what you’ve done to him? You can’t justify your own actions any more than I can.”

“What does he mean, Hermione?” I marvel at how even my voice sounds.

“Nothing! He’s just trying to divert our attention from what he’s done.” She sounds defensive.

“That may be,” Wendell agrees. “But, Boy Hero, you might want to ask better questions about your highly curious memory loss, and why nobody seems eager to help with it.”

“Enough!” Hermione screams. “It was never supposed to be this way! I was handling it!”

“You handled it alright. Such an efficient job you’ve done, too. He can learn the spells again, you know, and you’ll be facing a new version of Voldemort in three years time.”

Just like that, I _know_. There were no potions smugglers, no unnamed suspect who eluded capture. And Hermione knew about it, maybe planned the whole thing. _Fuck this_ , I decide. _Fuck this whole place, and fuck these secretive, manipulative people_.

The next thing that happens, starts out relatively small. Just a few potions vials, jittering in their stands, the clinking noise as they collide with one another sounding loud in the silent room. The edges of my vision are starting to turn grey, and the room’s grown unbearably cold. I haven’t got the slightest clue what the fuck is happening, but my desire to grab Draco, Pansy and the baby and get the fuck out of here is turning into a panicked imperative. “Draco,” I say, and my voice sounds different, deep and guttural. “Bring Scorpius and come here. You too, Pansy.” I’m operating purely by instinct, and I register mild surprise when they immediately obey. I grab their arms, intending to shove them behind me, and the air displaces with a crash, and we’re experiencing the sucking, twisting awfulness of apparation.

When we land, in Draco's library, I blink in surprise. “How did that happen?” Of all the things I feared might have been coming next, a slightly uncomfortable transportation to a safe place was not one of them.

“Merlin’s nuts, Potter,” Pansy breathes. “How the fuck did you do that? You just apparated through the Ministry’s wards! And the Malfoy’s.”

'I did? Huh." I turn to Draco. “Is Scorpius okay?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I think so. I’m going to call our private Healer.” He stomps over to the floo, and casts an incendio. As he grabs a handful of floo powder he suddenly turns back. “We will be talking about what just happened.”

That’s good, I reckon. I have no idea how I did that, and Draco’s a smart bloke. He’s muttering into the floo now, and Pansy turns to me. “So,” she says, a wry grin appearing on her lips, “have you been feeling strange lately?”

“Um, well, there’s the whole memory loss thing,” I say, unsure where she’s going with this.

“Any desires to achieve immortality?”

“Er…no?”

“Any evil plots to take over the Ministry?”

“Just a little one,” I say, “but I don’t really want to take it over so much as burn it down. I’m not fussed about what replaces it, though, so long as I don’t have to get involved.”

“Wendell may be on to something, Potter. I think you might be showing signs of latent Dark Lordiness.”

“Mm,” I say, distractedly, as a man I don’t know steps through the floo. “That needs watching, I’d say.”

“As you wish, My Lord,” she says. I can’t help but grin at her. She’s allowed to come visit me in my cabin in the woods.

The man turns out to be a Healer, and he examines Scorpius while Pansy and I stand at a distance. I take advantage of the time to scribble a quick note to Florean. I’m pretty sure I will be missing work for a bit. The Healer casts a series of spells, each one bursting into bright colours over the baby’s chest. One though, starts out as golden sparks, but fizzles out immediately. Draco makes a sound then, and it’s somewhere between a sob and a moan. “Fuck,” Pansy says in low tones.

“What was that?”

“Fertility charm. I hope that whatever freakish magic you did took out that entire lab, Potter. Otherwise, I’m going to kill that fucker myself.”

The Healer leaves nearly as quickly as he came, leaving Draco kneeling on the floor next to the sofa where Scorpius lies. The sleeping spell has worn off, and Scorpius seems no worse for wear, but Draco looks a wreck. Pansy and I glance at each other, and I'm just a step behind her as she moves to his side.

“Dray?” Her voice is unexpectedly soft. “Darling?”

“My son,” he says brokenly. “My beautiful boy.”

“Draco-” She puts a hand on his arm, and he shakes it off.

“I know, okay? He’s alive, and he’s going to live, and be fine. I know that. But just give me one fucking second,” he says, sounding furious, “to mourn that he’ll never be able to have a child of his own.”

It takes more than a second. He holds Scorpius tightly, and buries his nose into his little neck, and he cries, which freaks the baby out, so he cries too. I stand, passively watching, uncomfortable with all the feelings, and I hope that it ends soon. As it turns out, I don’t have to do anything, because that’s when Ron and Hermione show up. Draco lets them through the wards, and I have an unbearable urge to just run out the front door, and keep running, down the stupidly long driveway, past the ridiculous peacocks that roam the grounds, through the ostentatious gates with the giant ‘M’ in stylized wrought iron, and just keep running down the country road until I find a place where none of this is a problem. I have no idea if old Harry was any good at dealing with conflict, but the Harry I am now is shit at it.

I can’t look at Hermione. I knew that something wasn’t right, but I trusted her, and somehow she was involved with the evil bastard that hurt Draco’s baby, and…she was supposed to be my family. Because I didn’t have one, and somehow along the way, she and Ron became my people, and even when I woke up, confused, with no memories and no idea what was going on, she felt safe, but she isn’t. This whole time, she’s known who the person who hurt me was, because it was her. Because she thought I was turning into a Dark Lord.

This makes my breath catch, because maybe I was, and if that’s not a thought to give me pause, there hasn’t been one. Old Harry and new Harry both would be opposed to evil dictatorship, although possibly for different reasons. 

“How’s Scorpius?” Ron seems subdued, which isn’t normal, but he also looks genuinely concerned.

“Fine, mostly,” Draco says. It’s a credit to his level of shock, because he’s being uncharacteristically cordial to Ron.

“Harry.” Hermione says. I still can’t look at her, but the way she says my name is terrible. As though she’s ruined my life. Which, maybe she has, but I’ll be damned if we’re going to have any _feelings_ together. I just want to know what’s happened.

“What did you do?” The awful voice thing is contagious, it turns out because my voice doesn't sound okay either.

“Should we leave you to discuss this?” Draco hovers by the door.

“No, stay,” I say. “We still have to figure out what to do about Wendell and the Ministry and everything, but I want to find out what happened first.”

“Fucking Wendell,” Ron spits. I heartily agree. “About that, though,” he continues. “We couldn’t very well leave him there to destroy evidence, or run away or something.”

“Where is he?” Draco asks.

“He’s tied up outside your gate,” Ron admits. “We didn’t want to bring him through the wards, but I couldn’t think of what to do with him. He’s been stupified, and there are so many incarcerous charms that we may never totally untie him.”

“I can’t think of a better use for the dungeons,” Draco says, and nobody can argue with that, although I do find it a bit surprising that Draco has dungeons. Once Wendell’s settled, Draco calls for tea, after a brief sojourn to put his son to bed (guarded by a house elf), and let his Mother know that he’s home safe.

We sit, awkwardly clutching our teacups. Only Ron, lured in by the cakes that accompanied the tea, is working his way through the tray like it’s a vocation. The atmosphere is tense. How do you begin a conversation with your best friend about why she obliviated you to prevent you from becoming a Dark Lord? I settle on, “Explain.”

Hermione responds by bursting into tears, which startles everyone, particularly Pansy, who looks at her as though she’s grown a set of antlers. Ron produces a wrinkled handkerchief, and after Hermione mops up her face, she looks at me appealingly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean…It all came out wrong.”

I wave my hand impatiently. “Start at the beginning. Maybe at the bit where you thought I was becoming a Dark Lord.”

“Harry! I never thought that! How could you think such a thing of me?” She looks offended, and I raise my eyebrows at her. “Alright, sorry,” she mutters. “You have to understand, Harry. We gave you the brief version of your life story, but we really only focused on the events. We didn’t tell you anything about the emotional impact that your experiences had on you.”

“So I was a nutter?”

“No! Please, could you just let me…Alright. After the war, the cumulative trauma started to take an effect on you. You were an abused child who never learned to depend on adults to keep you safe. Once you came to Hogwarts, that pattern continued. And you lost people. So many people, Harry, and every single person who died during the war weighed on you like an anchor. You carried an incredible amount of guilt, and obligation.” Her breath hitches again, and she continues, talking fast. “Ron and I watched you grow from this wide-eyed child, who was fascinated by a world that gave you magic, and friends, and a purpose to…a man who carried that purpose on his back. The war changed you, changed all of us, but you were determined that nobody would ever die on your watch again.”

Ron takes her hand, his eyes suspiciously shiny. Hermione continues, “But you became an Auror. And you were amazing, and so dedicated, but it’s impossible to prevent every loss. Each time you were too late to save someone, each time a criminal got away, it weighed on you even heavier. Your magic has always been powerful, and after Voldemort died, it became more so. At the time, we didn’t know if the Horcrux had transferred his powers to you when you died, or if you just came into your magical maturity. Regardless, when you experienced high emotions, your magic reacted.”

I scrub a hand over my face, considering this. It made sense. I was essentially a walking powder keg.

“You were sometimes, unintentionally, very destructive. There are a few areas of the Ministry that still aren’t the same. People noticed, and they started to get concerned. Everyone knew that you weren’t doing it on purpose, but it wouldn’t be long before one of your outbursts got someone hurt, and that would just contribute to the cycle of you feeling responsible. There was concern about the Public finding out, and jumping to conclusions.”

She sighs. “I agreed to join the Unspeakables three days after the Battle of Hogwarts. I was sitting with you in the hospital wing, and you were asleep, dreaming. Your magic lashed out, and took out a wall of the castle. I knew right then, that the Department of Mysteries would be interested in the sort of power that could defeat a Dark Lord. I knew that the only way to keep you safe would be to ensure that I was the one doing that research.”

She suddenly brightens a little. “Don’t get me wrong. It was fascinating. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve learned about magical inheritance and the way that magic manifests in Muggleborns and…” she trails off before she can get carried away. “Anyway. It was obvious that your magical outbursts were tied to your emotional state, rather like accidental magic happens in children who haven’t learned control yet. I found a Muggleborn witch who had an advanced degree in Psychology, and we brought her in to consult.”

I’m sitting there, listening to her passionate words, and suddenly, I feel exhausted, as though the next things she says will change everything, and I have no idea whether that will be better or so, so much worse. “Look,” I interrupt suddenly, “maybe we shouldn’t be focusing on this right now. We’ve got a bound Ministry employee in the basement, and we broke into the Department of Mysteries earlier, which, I imagine, has raised some questions there. Maybe let’s just…leave off this for a while, and figure out what to do with Wendell.”

Everyone turns to look at me then, with varying expressions of gobsmackedness, which I wasn’t expecting, because for me, it’s perfectly reasonable to prioritize. Even though Ron vindicates me slightly by muttering, “Fucking Wendell.” 

Hermione gapes at me for a moment, before saying, “Don’t you want to know what happened to you?”

“Well, yes, of course I do, eventually, but it just seems like we should try to be a bit practical, yeah? I can’t imagine that Wendell’s going to go unmissed for long, and if the Ministry tries to cover this up, we’d have a better chance at managing this if we act before they do.”

This doesn’t really change their expressions, and I sigh. Pansy, finally breaks the silence. “Potter,” she says, in tones of shock, “that is very sensible.”

“Yes?” I’m still not understanding this reaction.

“Well…” Hermione bites at a fingernail. “It’s just that, in the past…I mean, generally…”

“Normally, you’d be so fixated on understanding the hidden plot that you’d lose sight of the bigger picture,” Ron supplies.

“Oh,” I say lamely. “Well, shouldn’t we take advantage of the opportunity?”

Draco barks out a laugh that’s only a little hysterical, and, well, he’s had a _day_. I send him a sympathetic look and try to focus my mind on where to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone named Wendell. I don't think it's a weak name, Harry does. Flame him, not me.


	9. Chapter 9

“So,” I say, “the Ministry has been trying to eliminate anyone who’s Dark, or Dark Affiliated, or Slytherin, regardless of whether they’ve done anything wrong. And the Department of Mysteries clearly has too much power, and not enough oversight. And Kingsley seems to be, if not implicit in the whole thing, at least willing to turn a blind eye. That’s about the sum of it, yeah?”

“Pretty much,” Pansy agrees.

“And the fact is that the reason they’ve been able to do it all is because they've used secrecy, blackmail, and vague laws that people don’t understand. So what if we remove the secrecy?”

“You don’t exactly have the best relationship with the press, Harry,” Hermione says. “They published all sorts of terrible things about you in school, and they hounded you like crazy after the War until-”

“Until you got in a giant strop one day and your accidental magic went after the lot of them!” Ron seems delighted at the memory. “They’ve left you alone since then, unless you do something really noteworthy, like shag a Malfoy, but I imagine that if you took this to them, they’d ignore the bigger stuff and instead write something about how you’re a conspiracy-theoried nutter.”

“So what then?” I’m starting to feel a bit frustrated. Why doesn’t anyone have a _plan_?

“Maybe we just need to pick a more sympathetic journalist?” Draco asks finally. “If Lovegood wrote the article and sold it as a special feature to the Prophet, we’d have more control over the tone.”

“Yes,” I say definitively. “That.” I've got a fifty-fifty chance of being institutionalized with a story like this, but this place is insane. It takes me no time at all to decide to give this a go, and if nothing changes, I'll just fuck off to my imaginary cabin in the woods, and they can sort things without me. It takes a matter of minutes to floo call Luna, who agrees to come over in the morning. 

I know that I have to hear the rest of Hermione’s story, but I keep putting it off, insisting that we check on Scorpius, and go feed (fucking) Wendell, and coerce him into writing a sick note to his boss at the Ministry to buy us some time. Eventually though, with the note owled off to the Department of Mysteries, and Scorpius fed and put back to bed, there’s nothing further to occupy us, and I’ve run out of excuses.

We settle back down, in the beautiful sitting room that’s cold, and looks expensive. I feel so unprepared to face this. I’ve reassessed my relationship with Hermione at least three times since I woke up without my memories, and I hate the thoughts of doing it again. Why is this friendship so complicated? 

“So,” Hermione starts. She's wringing her hands and won't meet my eyes. “The Psychologist and I worked together to bridge the gap between what we know about Magical theory and mind-healing and Muggle psychology. It was easy to identify the trauma that you’d experienced, and how damaging that had been to your overall mental health. It took longer to map that lifelong trauma to your magical outbursts. We spent ages trying to figure out why it manifested when it did, and whether it could be resolved. The Department Head supervised my work, and I had to report to Kingsley every month. The entire Ministry was interested in understanding whether you presented any danger to society, and they certainly were interested in how they could use you as a weapon.” She puts her head in her hands for a moment. “That was where it all started to go wrong. I started to, very carefully, downplay the situation. I was trying to protect your privacy, and keep you from being locked up in somewhere.”

She continues, “The outbursts weren’t improving. The Psychologist put you on a regimen of meditation and therapy. The Ministry was getting panicky. They needed you to publicly represent the future, to publicly be the calm, strong hero that people could trust, and privately, be able to point you at whatever they wanted destroyed. They started to pressure me for results more quickly.”

“Did I know about any of this?” I ask. 

Hermione shakes her head. “You thought that the therapy was voluntary, and, fortunately, you never tried to quit. Everything else happened in secret. I was working day and night, trying to find a solution. Finally, the Psychologist and I developed a theory. Harry, have you ever heard of Freud?”

I shake my head. Draco says, “He was the father of psychoanalysis. His theory was that the unconscious mind governs behaviour to a greater degree than people suspect.” Hermione looks surprised, and he says, “I _read_ , Granger. My father was a big believer in ‘know thy enemy’ and all that.”

“What do you mean, unconscious mind?” I ask.

“Freud thought that much of mental life is unconscious, and that past experiences, especially in early childhood, shape how a person feels and behaves throughout life,” Draco says.

“Well, yes,” said Hermione, “but we were more interested in another theory he had, about the id, the ego and the superego.”

“What’s that about?” Ron asks.

“They’re hypothetical conceptualizations of important mental functions,” Hermione says. She takes in our blank look and sighs. “Okay, look. Imagine that there are three different factors that keep your mind and your behaviour in balance. The id is an unconscious, impulsive part of your psyche. It wants what it wants. It’s all about your basic needs and desires. If you think about a baby, they’re purely id.”

“Alright,” I say slowly, as I take that in.

Hermione continues, “The ego develops as a sort of mediator between the id and the real world. It is the decision-making component of personality. It’s the factor that helps us postpone gratification when it isn’t appropriate.”

“So it keeps us from wanking during long meetings,” Ron supplies. Hermione cringes but nods her head.

“The super-ego works to control the id's impulses, especially the ones that aren’t considered socially acceptable. It persuades us to do the right thing, even when no one is watching. It also has the function of persuading the ego to turn to moralistic goals rather than simply realistic ones and to strive for our ideal self.”

“So the super-ego is basically, Hermione, in our brains,” Ron expands.

She purses her lips at Ron, but continues, “The super-ego also uses guilt to punish us when our behaviour falls short, and pride when we try to hit the ideals that it sets for us.”

“So what does this have to do with my angry baby magic?” I ask, getting impatient. Ron grins at me, just as invested in getting to the point.

“The psychologist and I developed a theory. We thought that the trauma of your childhood, and the way your Aunt and Uncle treated you had overdeveloped your super-ego. Once you got to Hogwarts, it only got worse, because Dumbledore fed that narrative and positioned you as this hero who had to sacrifice himself to save humanity.”

It makes sense, but I have a terrible feeling in my stomach about what's coming next.

“So, we thought that if we could do some strategic obliviation, and tweak some of the memories that fed your super-ego, it would reduce your unrealistic expectations of your ideal self, and make you less likely to constantly fall short of impossible ideals.”

“Merlin, Granger, tell me that someone stopped you. Tell me that this wasn’t the basis of your entire theory,” Draco pleads.

“It’s sound,” Hermione snaps.

“It’s oversimplified at best,” Draco shoots back. “Freud’s methods were problematic, and offered the after-the-fact explanations of any characteristic, but failed to predict such behaviours and traits. It’s like betting on a Quidditch match after it’s been played. He didn’t prove anything with empirical data, and his theories are about a century old. What are the credentials of your Psychologist?”

“She’s fine,” Hermione says, and when Draco looks skeptical, she continues, “It isn’t easy to find someone who knows the brain and the Magical world.”

“You should have looked harder,” Draco says coldly.

“So what happened then,” I ask, more to dispel the spirited discussion that’s likely to spring up between Draco and Hermione than because I actually feel ready to hear it.

“So then, your so-called ‘best friend’ plucked her way through your brain, obliviating memories at random in the hopes that she’d make you a better figurehead for the Ministry,” Draco says, glaring with full heat at Hermione.

“It wasn’t like that,” Hermione says, but her voice holds a note of defensiveness that suggests Draco’s not as far off as she wants to be. “It was just that we underestimated how interconnected everything was. It was like trying to unravel a tangle of yarn. Every memory I touched was tangled amongst another, and all of them so deeply embedded in your psyche that it pulled its neighbour free. When I finally managed to get myself out of your mind, it was like a wildfire had ravaged a forest. If I’d had more time, I would-”

“Why would you have had to rush this?” Draco asks.

“Well we knew that we’d only have a limited amount of time in the warehouse where we set up the potions bust. The wards kept Harry’s partner out, but not for long. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out what we’d done.”

Ron is looking at her, horror contorting his features. “‘Mione,” he finally gasps, and the single utterance of her name is more condemning than any vitriol I could spew.

“So that’s what’s happened,” she says, ignoring Ron and concluding her confession, in a wooden, empty voice. “When you awoke at St. Mungo’s, your mind was, essentially, just id and ego, a blank slate.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Draco spits. “Without a conscience, without something driving us to a higher state of behaviour, we’d all be baseless animals.”

“Not Harry,” Hermione says. “His egoistic wants are very simple, and he has little need for more of the depraved desires. He just wants to live a simple life.”

“Gryffindor,” Pansy chuckles.

“It isn’t funny,” Draco says, whirling around to glare at Pansy. “That was an enormous leap of faith. How did you know he’d be that way?”

“I was right, though, wasn’t I? The worst thing Harry’s done since he lost his memory was shag you!”

Draco glares at her. “This is an abomination of a research study, and an abysmal violation of Harry’s human rights. How could you possibly be a party to this?” I don’t think I’ve seen Draco look so furious, and so sad, and considering what’s happened so far today, that’s saying something.

“What would you have me do? The Ministry wanted a lame duck that they could parade around Diagon Alley in a pretty set of robes. They wanted to strip him of his magic, they were trying to find a way to overcome his ability to throw off Imperius. I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“What the fuck is wrong with this place?” My voice cuts through the room sharply, and everyone jumps. “You did all that, you took away my life because you wanted to _prevent_ a Dark Lord? This! This is how you end up with a Dark Lord!”

I sit for a moment, thinking over everything she’s said. I believe that her motives were pure enough, but something niggles in the back of my mind. “Did you tell me what Kingsley had planned, stripping my magic and using me as a puppet? Did you give me a choice about the memory experiment?”

Her silence is a palpable presence in the room. I nod my head. “Yeah, I thought. I think I need to be alone. Draco, could you spare me a room for the night?”

He nods, and at his finger snap, an elf appears, who then leads me to a guest suite. Once I’m alone in the room, I sink down onto the floor and rest my head on my knees. For the longest time, I can’t focus my thoughts at all, they just turn over and over, examining the information that the day has brought, and retreating from each evidence of betrayal.

I know I need to decide what to do next. Why would I want to stay in the Magical world, a place where I’m feared and watched with suspicion? Where my best friend makes poorly researched decisions that affect my future without giving me any input on them? There are things that I like about the magical world, and there’s nothing like the heady buzz I feel when the magic runs down my arm and through my wand. But the people here seem to see me as nothing more than a tool, a symbol. I wonder if the old me enjoyed the fame and attention of being the Boy who Lived. The cabin in the woods is starting to look more and more like my only option.

A knock at my door interrupts my unproductive thoughts, and I say, “Yeah?” I don’t think that Draco would allow Hermione to intrude on my space here. My faith is confirmed when Draco enters. He looks exhausted. “Draco.”

“Harry.” His face is so sad that I stand, and almost reach out to him when I remember. He broke up with me. He might not want me to touch him at all. I stand a little awkwardly. Maybe he’s here to to ask me to leave. “I know we have things we need to talk about," he says. "We need to sort out, Merlin...everything, but I’m honestly so exhausted that I just can’t right now.”

“I understand. Draco, you don’t need to say anything, I underst-”

He cuts me off, “I don’t have any right to ask for this, especially after I pushed you away, but, would you sleep in my room with me tonight? I really don’t want to be alone.”

For a minute, I consider turning him down. My thoughts are churning like the ocean, and I’m not sure if I have the capacity to deal with Draco’s grief on top of it. But I don’t particularly want to lie in a lonely bed either. I nod, and his eyes fill for a moment, before he mutters, “Thanks.”

We remove our robes in silence, and when we’re both in t-shirts and pants, we crawl into the big bed. The distance between us spans wide, and in some ways, it’s lonelier than if I’d stayed in the guest room. Then, I feel a cool hand encircle mine. “Is this okay?” Draco’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. The room is quiet and dark, and we both lie, alone with our thoughts, tethered by the grip of our hands. Until, that is, I hear the tiniest little gasp, and I realize that Draco is crying. The day has been…a lot, and I don’t really know what to do with his emotion, already feeling overwhelmed by my own thoughts. But as the bed shakes with his silent sobs, and his sadness covers us like a blanket, I do the only thing that seems right, and I pull him into my arms, and let his tears drip down my neck, and he clings to me like a frightened child until the dawn breaks.

With the morning comes resignation, of a sort. Draco grieves the end of his family’s bloodline with dignity (which really just means that he doesn't discuss it at all), and has turned his mind toward the practical. “It’s not as though the Malfoy name is anything to be proud of anymore, and he could do a blood adoption if he really wanted to,” he reflects over his breakfast toast. Scorpius seems unharmed, aside from the sterilization. He sits opposite me at the table and seems delighted with the world, as a house elf feeds him disgusting-looking cereal and he grabs everything that comes into his reach. 

Draco’s Mother has been told, and her grief is wilder, less contained, but she’s also angry, murderously angry. I don’t have any memory of Narcissa Malfoy, but she’s a formidable witch, and I’m glad that her fury isn’t directed my way. She seems ambivalent about my presence at the breakfast table, polite but distant. I'm thrilled to ignore her, as all of her pent up feelings make me nervous.

Luna is expected to arrive within the hour, and we spend little time preparing what to discuss with her. Instead, Draco’s razor-sharp intellect is directed upon me. “It makes sense,” he says, squeezing lemon into his teacup. “I’ve been wondering why you were so different since losing your memory. I’ve spent an awful lot of time thinking about nature versus nurture lately.”

I’m not really sure what he means, but asking questions will prompt one of those ‘poor simple Potter’ looks, so I merely nod. “It doesn’t really matter anyway,” I say finally. “I’m different now, it seems, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Old me seemed to completely fu-” I catch myself just in time as Narcissa raises an eyebrow at my language, “messed up. Who wouldn’t want a clean slate if they’d had the sort of life I have?”

“I suppose,” Draco says, but continues, “but I miss the way that you used to glare across a room at me.”

I laugh. “You want me to hate you?”

“Not at all. I want you to _care_ the way you used to.”

I shrug. “Hardly seems worth the trouble, really. I was closeted, in a job I hated, and spent most of my time trying to please other people.”

Draco looks like he has a lot more to say on the topic, but a house elf pops into the breakfast room and announces that Luna has arrived.

An interview with Luna Lovegood goes…pretty much as I should have expected, really. We manage to get the salient points of the story across, and Luna takes a picture of Draco holding a cherubic-looking Scorpius, but it’s hard going. Luna is prone to disjointed flights of fancy, during which she questions Draco earnestly on his Nargle infestation. We’ve just managed to drag her back unwillingly from a discussion of the effect of Dirigible Plum brandy on moon frogs, when she locks her strangely compelling eyes on me and says, “Of course, the Ministry has always had a seedy underbelly, you know.”

“Really, Luna?”

“Of course. Certainly you’ve heard of the Rottfang Conspiracy?”

“Not really,” I reply.

“Well, no of course not, with your memory loss and all. Needless to say, the corruption runs deep. Absolute power, you know.”

I’ve grown accustomed to Luna saying things that I don’t understand, and, although it initially took me some time to accept the futility of trying to gain an explanation, I’ve learned to roll with it. Draco, however, is sending me panicky eyes, as though the ensuing newspaper article will make us all seem mad. It might, I allow, but my instinct is telling me to trust Luna, and so I merely smile reassuringly back at Draco, and try to haul Luna back to the point.

“So Harry,” she finally says, after consuming a biscuit with great enthusiasm, “what changes need to take place at the Ministry?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I reply. “I’m probably the worst person to ask, really. But I can’t imagine that the person we’ve invested the most trust in should be allowed to continue leading us. Not after he’s turned a blind eye to the unfair suffering of children in Dark-aligned families. And the Department of Mysteries needs an overhauling. We can’t allow that sort of power to go unchecked.”

“So will you seek election?”

“As Minister?” I can’t help but laugh. “Are you serious, Luna? No, of course not. I couldn’t possibly be less qualified. The position should go to someone who has shown themselves to be impartial in the past.”

She turns that thousand watt stare on me again, and finally says, “Well, if you can’t see it, I suppose…Anyhow, I have everything I need. I’ve spoken to the editor of the Prophet and a special edition will be out tonight. Thanks for the story, Harry, Draco.”

She leaves behind a scent of jasmine, and the day passes quickly. We play with Scorpius, and talk Narcissa out of some of her more murderous scheming, and watch the house elves chase away Ron and Hermione’s owl, who seems intent on delivering a letter.

The article, splayed across the front page of the Prophet, when the paper finally arrives, is brilliant:

**Misplaced Trust  
By Luna Lovegood, guest writer to the Prophet**

**Scorpius Malfoy, six months, is a beautiful child. The Malfoy heir, son of Draco Malfoy, who served probation for his involvement in the Second Wizarding War, is guilty of nothing more than the circumstances of his birth. Draco and his Mother, Narcissa Malfoy have lived a quiet life since the conclusion of the War Trials, keeping mostly to themselves in their Manor in Wiltshire. Draco is employed by Gringott’s as a Curse-breaker, and Narcissa quietly pursues philanthropic efforts, taking care to evade notoriety.**

**Such has not been the fate of Draco’s Hogwarts Housemates. Vilified for the limited role that they played during the war, Draco’s classmates and friends have been quietly placed on probation, regardless of their actions or affiliations with Tom Riddle during the conflict. This probation requires that these citizens maintain steady employment, even amidst the post-war attitudes towards Dark-aligned families. When unable to find legal employment, the former members of Slytherin house have been forced to make ends meet via less-legal avenues. The Office of Probation and Rehabilitation punishes them harshly for breach of probation, levying enormous fines, or sentencing them to Azkaban.**

**What appears, on the surface, to be an unethical misuse of justice, is actually only the smallest symptom of a much more worrying conspiracy that weaves through multiple Departments of the Ministry. This trail of corruption finds its end at the door of current Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Along the way, it makes a stop at the Department of Mysteries, where a team of Unspeakables research Dark Magic, bloodlines and inherited gifts, as though the magic that we all share in common can produce traits that turn a witch or wizard towards Dark Arts. The Department posits that Dark-aligned families inevitably produce Dark Lords, and their mandate to prevent the next Voldemort from terrorizing our society seeks to eliminate all so-called ‘dark’ traits.**

**Many fair-minded people, while questioning the sense of such studies, wouldn’t outright reject the pursuit of knowledge. However, the fact that these learned Unspeakables have converted theory into action leaves this reporter pause. Why was Scorpius Malfoy kidnapped from his home less than a week ago? Why was Scorpius Malfoy taken to the Department of Mysteries, where a spell was cast upon him to render him sterile?**

**Why did Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Wizengamot passively look away when Harry Potter was robbed of his memory in an Unspeakable’s spell gone wrong? Could it be that they wished to have a pliant, mouldable hero figure who would acquiesce to the political whims of the day?**

**With a Ministry who seems intent on genocide of portions of our population, and robbing the one who saved us all of his agency, this reporter questions where they will stop. These actions are several measures too far, and the Prophet challenges Kingsley Shacklebolt to name all of those who have participated in these actions, either implicitly or explicitly, and defend the righteousness of their choices.**

**As to the misguided notion of ridding the world permanently of Dark Magic…What these learned scholars don’t consider is the complex nature of magic, and that intent is what turns a spell dark or light. A Difindo can free someone from bonds, or sever their wand arm. Parseltongue, long considered a dark gift, is something that Harry Potter himself carries, and used to thwart an early reincarnation attempt by Tom Riddle. Interference with the natural order of things, the complex interplay of magic can only prove to be folly.**

As I finish reading, I look up at Draco, who’s been reading his own copy. “Well?” I ask.

“It’s not bad,” he admits. “Subtle enough, but not allegations that the Ministry can avoid. Especially…” he trails off and I look more closely at him.

“Especially what?”

“Especially if the Saviour takes a trip to the Ministry in the morning.”

I groan, even as I know he’s right. “I don’t want to,” I sigh. 

“I’ll go with you,” he says, “if you wanted me to.”

“You would?” He smiles at the surprise in my voice.

“Harry, you understand that I didn’t want to end things between us, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I don’t really know if it matters. You have priorities, Draco. Your son, and your friends, and I realize that your life might be too complicated to include me. I’m attracted to you, and I enjoy spending time with you, so of course I’m disappointed, but if you’re not interested, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

His mouth twists. “The old Potter would have been furious, or tried to fight to keep me.”

“I’m not him,” I say. 

“No,” he says. “You aren’t.”

“If you were only interested in dating me because you thought I was still like that, I understand.” I get up and head to the floo.

“No, Harry, wait, please.” When I pause, he rises and crosses the room to me. “I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t miss the fire and passion that you once had. It’s hard to reconcile the boy you were with the man you are now. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to continue pursuing this.”

“I can’t go back though. I won’t be old me ever again.”

“I know that. Listen, before I saw you in that club, I wouldn’t have even considered you as a potential partner. For all I knew, you were straight, and committed to Ginny Weasley, and hated me. I don’t want you to think I’m…I don’t know…settling for something by dating you now.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Draco laughs. “Mostly. I think, knowing what I know now, that we’re both gay, and that the sexual tension between us is incredible, who knows what sort of unconscious desires lay buried underneath all of our childhood squabbling?”

The laugh huffs out of me without my permission. Draco continues, “It doesn’t matter, though. That’s the past, and there’s no point in revisiting it. I’m interested in you now, Harry.”

It isn’t a romantic declaration of undying love, and, to be honest, I’d have no idea what to do with one of those anyways. But, it’s honest, and for now, that’s enough. “Alright then. So we’re doing this? We’re…together? Even though I’m an emotionless shell of my former self?”

Draco grins. “How could I pass that up?”

Draco insists on stopping by my flat to dress me in one of the dress robes I bought during my shopping spree. He fusses with my hair for an inordinate amount of time, which I find annoying, but he gives me a lust-filled once over that makes up for it. “Acceptable,” he sniffs, and I spend the floo journey to the Ministry imagining all of the things I’d like to do to wipe his smug little sneer from his face.

The Ministry is, as I should have predicted, a madhouse. Draco learns right away that they’ve called an emergency session of the Wizengamot, and that Kingsley will be testifying as to his involvement in the conspiracy. The Atrium is packed with reporters, employees and citizens, and when they see us, the chatter rises to a roar as everyone seems to clamour for a statement from us both. I start elbowing my way through the crowd, but Draco casts a much more effective spell that pushes people back by a few feet and clears a path to the lifts.

He leads me to Courtroom ten, and, really, it’s a good thing I did agree to let him come along, since I’d have had no hope of finding it on my own. There are fifty-odd witches and wizards sitting in the risers, resplendent in plum robes. They all look decidedly pissed off, which fills me with satisfaction, since they bloody well should be. Kingsley looks diminished, sitting, surprisingly meekly, in an armchair in the centre of the open floor. Draco stiffens beside me, and I look up to see Hermione and Ron in the gallery seats. I place a hand on his arm. The time will come to sort that situation out, but not until we’ve solved the bigger issue. Pansy has delivered (fucking) Wendell this morning, and he is strapped into a chair beside Kingsley’s. I notice that Zach Smith and a few other sullen-looking wizards are being guarded by Aurors in another corner. As we sit in the witness’ section, I notice Mill in an upper seat in the Galley, and she gifts me with one of her blooming smiles.

I have no expectations of a Wizarding trial, which is good, because I never could have imagined how procedural and _boring_ it turns out to be. The same potion that was administered to Wendell in the Department of Mysteries is in abundant supply, and a woman, who Draco whispers is named Griselda Marchbanks, seems to be in charge.

They begin with Wendell, and he dreamily confesses to his actions, while implicating about a dozen other members of the Ministry, who, entertainingly, go chalk-white and look like they want to run away.

“Unspeakable Bright, we will delay voting on your innocence until those you have implicated have provided testimony. In the meantime, you’ll be remanded into the custody of the Aurors,” Madam Marchbanks says.

The slimy git, Smith, is up next, and his testimony is enlightening, if infuriating. As the test questions are administered, he provides his name and his job title in a clipped, absent tone, and then Marchbanks lights into him. “Mr. Smith. How much oversight did you have in the administration of Probation sentences?”

“I was fully in charge. I don’t think that anyone even read my reports, not that they would have cared if they had. Uncle Wendell told me that I could do as I saw fit.”

“Please share your personal feelings about the former members of Slytherin House who you attended school with?”

“Well, they’re human refuse,” he says, and there’s a note of confidence that makes my spine tingle.

“Tell me about your specific judgements in the case of these individuals. We’ll start with Pansy Parkinson.”

“She’s a whore,” he says bitterly. 

I feel a bit sick. Madam Marchbank patiently leads Smith through each of her charges, and the various punishments doled out for each violation. She follows it with each and every one of the Slytherins from our year that I’ve been told about, as well as a bunch of names I’ve never heard before. It paints a bleak picture. Nobody escaped his wrath, except for Draco. I wonder what exactly I said, at his trial and afterwards, to keep him free from this revenge.

“Did you know that you were abusing your position, and creating a situation where these individuals couldn’t possibly be rehabilitated?”

“Yes,” he answers smugly.

“And what gave you the right to penalize these members of our society?”

“They aren’t,” he bites out. “They aren’t members of our society. They lost, and once we eliminate them, only decent people will remain.”

“So you knew that this was a part of a wider conspiracy to eliminate those who are Dark-aligned?”

“Yes, of course I did,” he says, and directs a bemused little smile my way that has Draco clinging to my arm so I don’t leap up and strangle him.

Kingsley is next on the stand, and as the Verituserum is administered, he glares at me and Draco. Draco’s hand on my arm tightens, and I barely notice that I’ve drawn closer to him.

“What did you know about the Ministry’s strategy for practicers of Dark Magic?”

“I knew that our only hope for salvation was to rid our society of those who were Dark-aligned. I knew that the Department of Mysteries had a solid research strategy. I knew that those who were members of Slytherin House during the War, and those affiliated with them, were being addressed.”

“And you condoned the plans to surreptitiously exile or eradicate these people?”

“I supported it.”

“And what was your involvement in the crimes perpetrated against Harry Potter?”

“They weren’t crimes. They were an act of mercy.”

“How so?”

“Potter was becoming increasingly unstable. He was a danger, but had great potential to serve the Ministry.”

“Serve the Ministry in what capacity?”

“He’s a symbol of the Light. With his endorsement, we would gain public support of any initiative that was required.”

“And his planned appointment to the position of Head Auror?”

“In name only. It was expedient to give him a position of authority, but dangerous to give him real power.”

“And your plans to achieve that?”

“We wished to remove the majority of his magical power, and with it, his ability to resist the Imperius Curse. With Potter under control, the Ministry could finally usher in a new era of harmony. A purely Light society, with all of the legacy of Darkness gone. It would give the public hope, and safeguard the future.”

“And what of Mister Potter’s rights?”

“It was for the greater good.”

A whisper of a memory, more emotion than thought, ripples through me at his words, and I’m overcome by rage. Despite Draco’s tugging pull on me, I’m on my feet before I know it, and the words escape me without any conscious planning. “How dare you!”

“Harry!” Draco’s whispered entreaty barely registers.

“Mister Potter, we cannot allow any outbursts from witnesses or the public-” Madam Marchbank begins, but I pay her no mind.

“This is how you thank someone for willingly walking to his death to save you all? Have you no shame? You’re so short-sighted, Minister. Don’t you realize that, without any sort of balance, you’ll find yourself in the same situation in the future? You can’t have Light without Dark, and you can’t oppress and eradicate a faction of people without consequences. You, and the rest of Magical Britain, deserve the fate that’s coming to you.”

I turn and leave the courtroom. Draco and I both had been summoned to testify in the proceedings, but they had our memories, and our statements, and they’d simply have to make do without me. I am finished with dancing to their purposes.

Someone pulls on my wrist, and I turn to confront whomever is foolish enough to delay me. When I see that it’s Draco, I lower my wand. “That?” Draco says, slamming me into an adjacent wall, “was really fucking hot.” His mouth is on mine before I can respond. I kiss him eagerly, my hands touching him anyplace I can reach while hindered by his robes. In my desperation for contact, I can’t settle on caressing any one part of him for long.

“Can we go?” I beg.

“Yes, Harry. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I am late in posting! In this weird Covid world, I forgot that it was Thursday until I woke up this morning.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting/kudo-ing!


	10. Chapter 10

A few weeks later, when we’re lying on his enormous, ostentatious bed, Draco sighs into my neck. “What is it?” I ask.

“You’re so different,” he says hesitantly. I tense. “No, it’s not a bad difference,” he assures me. “Your past was, I think, a heavier burden than was good for you. And it’s nice to see you making choices because they’re what you want, not because of what you think is best for others.”

“But…” I prompt, realizing that people rarely make statements like that without a ‘but’.

“No, not but,” he says slowly. “I am happy, with you, with us. It’s stupid.” He flushes, and turns away. 

“Tell me?”

“You met me, as far as you remember, a short time ago. And you see me as you do, and accept me, and I’m so happy about that. It’s just that, I still have all of this unresolved history with you. It makes me feel as though I’m cheating, somehow. Like, if you got your memory back tomorrow, you’d be horrified, and feel like I’ve tricked you into being with me.”

I consider this. “I understand that. It _is_ easier for me. But you hated me once, and, I assume, you don’t hate me anymore.”

He smiles. “I never hated you, Harry. I was jealous of you, and jealous of Weasley for how much attention you gave him, and I was furious, every time you made me look foolish, but it wasn’t hate. In fact, after I hit puberty, and started to understand that I was gay, it started to make a lot more sense.” His face is still flushed, and he looks bashful. It’s incredibly charming.

“Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin house had a crush on Harry Potter, half-blooded child of the light?” My tone is mocking, and his flush deepens. 

His chin rises for a moment, and I think he’s going to say something haughty, but instead he buries his face back into my neck, and says, “I fancied you something rotten, Harry Potter.”

I think I’m starting to understand, a bit. “So does it, I don’t know…cheapen what we have now?”

“No,” he says slowly. “Not cheapen. It’s just different.”

He refuses to say anything more, and distracts me with his lips on my neck when I try to ask him additional questions. I let it drop, more than happy to kiss away the lines of contemplation that have appeared on his face, but the conversation stays with me.

Luna is one of the few people whose owls are allowed past the wards. The following morning at breakfast, as I’m unsuccessfully trying to deposit mashed bananas into Scorpius’ mouth (he seems to have a talent for pushing them all back out, and down his front), a large package arrives. Inside, Draco and I find a number of issues of the Quibbler, as well as some of the Prophet. As we work our way through them in chronological order, we learn that (fucking) Wendell has been sent to Azkaban for life, and Smith for twenty years. There’s a list of other names, ones I don’t recognize, but they’ve all been punished harshly. Draco professes to remember some of them from school, including one by the name of Thomas, who he tells me I shared a dorm with.

I’m satisfied by the resolution, but I look to Draco. “Is that enough?” I ask.

He sighs. “I don’t think anything will be enough, really. Scorpius’ life has been altered, no question. This will affect his marriage prospects, amongst those who care about bloodlines and such. It’s not that I care, really, but…” he trails off and looks up at the ceiling. I understand immediately. Narcissa Malfoy will care. In truth, I’ve barely seen her since Draco and I have exiled within the wards of Malfoy Manor, and she’s been coolly polite each time, excusing herself nearly immediately. She’s taken every meal in her quarters since the breakfast we shared. Resolving to deal with that problem another day, I return to the matter at hand.

“What would be a better outcome than this?” I ask, gesturing at the newspapers.

“That’s the thing,” he says with a shrug. “My Father, no doubt, would have vowed revenge on Bright's entire family, and, the Ministry, and achieved it, no doubt, through underhanded means. That’s not how I want to live my life, and I don’t want to set that sort of example for Scorpius. It’s just….Bright will be locked away for the rest of his life, and there’s no sort of punishment that would restore what Scorpius has lost. I’m grateful that he’s alive, even if I feel guilty that he suffered, simply because of his last name.”

He’s right, I realize. There’s nothing that can be done to restore the damage, and a just punishment is merely a footnote to the tragedy. Scorpius seems no worse for his experiences, as he happily chirps away, trying to steal the spoon I’m still half heartedly pointing at him. He won’t be able to have children, but, Morgana willing, he won’t live in fear for the rest of his life either.

The next newspaper addresses the problem of the Minister for Magic. Kingsley has been ousted in a non-confidence vote, and will also serve a forty-year sentence in Azkaban. The paper seems much more interested in who will take his place. The Undersecretary has been sworn in as Acting Minister. I note with interest that Percy Weasley now holds the title.

“I met him!” I exclaim. “He’s incredibly boring!”

Draco laughs. “He is, if he’s still the same as he was in school.”

“Ah well,” I say. “Mrs. Weasley will be pleased. And he can’t be worse than the man he’s replacing.” 

We make our way through the newspapers, and Draco says, “Oh, Luna’s left a note for you.”

I read it:

_Hello Harry;_

_I hope that you and Draco are recovering from your ordeal, and taking advantage of the time to get to know one another again. As you can see, the Wizarding World marches on, and they seem to be doing just fine without you to save them. It’s a nice time of year to retire._

_I’ve been speaking with Hermione and Ron. Ron says to tell you that he misses you, and that he’s looking forward to seeing you when you’re ready. He and Hermione have had a lot to sort out…it seems that Ron feels quite betrayed on your behalf._

_Hermione has been quite busy as well. She has tried to write to you herself, but I understand that the Manor’s wards are very effective, and her owls are being turned away. You should take all the time you need before you decide to have visitors. She did, however, ask me to pass along the news that she’s been able to work out how to reverse the memory spell. If you want to return your missing memories, you need only ask._

_When you feel up to it, I’d love to come visit. I have some excellent wine to share with you, and we haven’t played Secret or Memory in a while. I bet Draco would be an excellent player._

_With love,  
Luna_

I pass the letter over to Draco, who reads it while I do a terrible job of trying to clean Scorpius up. A house elf pops into the room, gives me a pitying look, and takes him away, presumably to succeed where I have failed. Draco holds the parchment for a long time, longer than it could possibly have taken him to read it. Finally, without even a glance in my direction, he stands. “Excuse me,” he says, and leaves the room.

I sit, surrounded by the leavings of breakfast, unsure what to do next. I could have my memories back, if I want them. And Draco has…feelings about that, but I’m not ready to explore them, as uncertain as I am of my own. I finally rise, and wander, a bit aimlessly. I find a sunroom, filled with orchids, and it’s here that I stop. I watch a hawk glide through the sunny sky, until he spies something in the field, and swoops down. His kill is quick, merciless, efficient.

“Mister Potter.” I turn to see Narcissa, who stands, a bit unsure, in the doorway. “Would you object to some company?”

“Of course not.” It is, after all, her home. “Please.” I start to stand, but she waves me back into my seat.

“Where’s Draco?”

“I’m not sure. We received word this morning that I could restore my memories, if I choose.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure. Draco left as soon as he’d read the letter. I don’t know what he thinks.”

“You have a past, the two of you.”

“So I’m told. Perhaps it’s cleaner if we’re able to move on from it.”

“You’re able to. I don’t think that Draco has that luxury.”

“So you think that I should get them back?”

She laughs. “Mister Potter, I think you’ve heard the broad strokes of my life’s story. I can’t imagine that anyone would see me as an authority on the best course of action.”

“I don’t know about that. I think everyone made mistakes. It was, I’m told, a difficult time for everyone.”

“Yes.” The hawk is still soaring in the sky, and we watch it in silence for a while. “Did you know, Mister Potter, that Draco’s favourite story, as a child, was the story of the Enchanted Ring? Do you know that one?”

I shake my head. “No, of course you wouldn’t,” Narcissa says. “The story of the Enchanted Ring tells of a Wizard who has accomplished much, but is always searching for more. He is restless, unable to settle, and travels the world in search of more learnings, more treasure. Deep in a hidden cave, he finds a ring, guarded by a spectre. The spectre warns him that the ring will bring true enlightenment, but that it will be fleeting, that wixenkind is not meant for such knowledge. The Wizard thinks carefully, but the lure of the ring is too great. The spectre weeps, begs the Wizard to consider what will be lost but the Wizard places the ring upon his finger. For a moment, he is filled with all of the knowledge of the universe, but, the knowledge is too much for him, and his spirit breaks free from his body, which crumbles into dust. His spirit moves to the nearest living thing, which is a yew tree, where he stays for eternity, knowing everything, but unable to do anything with it.”

I ponder this for a while, but come up empty. “What is the story intended to tell me?”

“I’m not certain, Mister Potter. Perhaps it warns you that taking your memories back will destroy all that you have built. Perhaps it is that living your life without the foundational memories is a false peace that will ultimately rob you of everything you are.”

I look at her blankly. This woman is enigmatic, and I hate it.

“Perhaps,” she says, placing a surprisingly warm hand on my shoulder as she stands, “it is a story with no moral, and you must find the answer yourself.”

Oh for _fuck’s_ sake. “Thank you,” I say, and I’m thrilled that I betray none of my annoyance at her cryptic story, which helped in absolutely no way at all.

“I’m not sure if it helps,” she begins, and I have some momentary terror that she can read minds, “but Draco has been fascinated by you since he was a small boy in a robes shop. I don’t expect that will change, regardless of your decision.” She’s gone before I can respond. 

The hawk has gone as well, and the stillness and peace outside are at odds with my tumbling thoughts. Why should I be burdened with my past? What could possibly be worth it? I’m content now, with Draco, and free of the responsibilities that old Harry had. Why would I be so foolish as to risk that? And for what? A few moments of happiness, memories of people who are long-dead and can’t bring me any joy?

So resolved, I stand and make my way upstairs. Draco is in Scorpius’ room, releasing multi-coloured bubbles from his wand. The baby is entranced, and when one pops around his poking finger, he laughs, huge belly laughs that make Draco laugh too. Fleetingly, I wonder if my parents did the same for me, and then just as quickly, I dismiss it. It doesn’t matter if they did. I could dwell in the past, or I could _live_.

“How’s your magic?” I ask Draco.

“Strong enough to do this,” he says. At my concerned look, he smiles. “It’s fine, Harry. I would have given it all if it meant bringing Scorpius home.” 

It’s incomprehensible to me. As fond as I am of Draco, I couldn’t imagine making a sacrifice like that for him. Maybe it’s different with someone’s child.

“Will you be able to do your job?”

Draco shrugs. “Perhaps not. Doesn’t matter.”

I suspect that old me would be so incensed at how the recent turns of circumstance have affected Draco’s family, that I’d be tirelessly doing…something, to try to fix it. Instead, I lay on the floor on the other side of Draco. Scorpius, tucked under his opposite arm, has drifted off to sleep. “I don’t think I want my memories back,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because it was a shit life, Draco. Why would I want to remember that?”

“So you’re not doing it because of me? Because I was upset earlier?”

I lever up onto one elbow and look at him, puzzled. “No. Should I be?”

“No,” he says, but he’s watching me closely. I can’t read his expression, so I flop back down on my back. “The old you would have, I imagine.”

“The old me was a git.”

Draco stands and gathers Scorpius in his arms before depositing him into his cot. “He wasn’t,” he says softly, as I follow him from the room.

Two days later, I’m surprised to see Luna sitting at the breakfast table. I hadn’t heard Draco get up, and from the looks of them, they’ve been there a while. Luna smiles brightly at me. “Hello, Harry.”

“Hullo, Luna. Nice to see you again.”

“Oh yes, when I woke up this morning, the Nargles told me that I should visit.”

“That was nice of them.”

“I thought so. Draco and I have been catching up.” Draco looks up at me, and his eyes are suspiciously bright, as though he’s been crying, or near to it. I place a kiss on the top of his head and sink into a chair beside him.

They continue chatting while I make my tea, but I suspect that there’s been a subject change since I arrived, as I doubt Luna’s new printing press made Draco so emotional. “I think I’ll go see whether Scorpius is dressed,” Draco says, and gives Luna a short bow before leaving the room.

“How are you, Harry?”

“Fine, mostly,” I say. “Draco’s a bit upset, obviously, but I’m just looking forward to when the dust settles some and I can go back to work.” I’m still annoyed that I’d barely started my new job when things got so crazy and I wasn’t able to show up, but Florean’s been gracious, and I was able to sort things out by owl with the solicitor and the bank, so they can afford to hire help.

“Hermione seems very fixated on restoring your memories,” Luna says. I’d suspected that she’d come to discuss this with me, but I don’t especially mind. I’m curious about what she’ll say, if I’m being honest. It will either be shockingly insightful, or completely mad, and I’d be glad of either.

“Yes. I’m not sure I trust her to poke about in my mind again, even if I did want them back.”

“You think you might not?”

I shrug. “I can’t imagine what I’d want to remember. Even though I resent the hell out of her doing it without my permission, I can’t fault Hermione for thinking it would be helpful.”

“And you think it is helping you?”

“Sure. Ron told me that I used to have nightmares, and I don’t, anymore. I don’t think I’d like being able to remember how many people used me as a weapon. And with my memories, I’d have to relive killing people, and having people die. It’s like a clean slate.”

“And without your memory loss, you’d still be with Ginny. Now you have Draco.”

I nod. I hadn't thought of that. “That too. Now I have Draco.”

“Do you love him?”

It seems a strange question. “No? I don’t think so. Isn’t it too soon?”

“Do you see yourself loving him?”

“How should I know? I don’t even know what love feels like.”

She tilts her head and looks at me appraisingly. “I suppose you don’t, for all that.”

“And how can I miss what I don’t know?”

To my horror, her eyes fill with tears. I start to panic a little, but she swallows hard, stands, and comes around the table to wrap her arms around me. She gives good hugs, and says into my ear, “I love you, Harry.”

I’m startled. “Oh. Um. Thanks?”

She laughs. “Hermione had an idea, and at first I thought it was terrible, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I don’t think I want any more of Hermione’s ideas, thanks.”

“Hear me out,” she urges. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial filled with silvery liquid. “These are memories.”

I’m suspicious. “Mine?”

“No, Hermione’s. She thought that maybe you didn’t understand what you were missing.”

“Probably not,” I reply. “But I’m okay with that.”

She bites her lip, and looks closely at me. Luna has huge eyes, and they’re a bit disconcerting when they’re focused so intently. I try to keep my gaze level, even though I’d quite like to look away. “Harry, I’m not sure about this, but I have a feeling I might be right. I think that Hermione took more than just your memories.”

“Ugh, really?” I sigh. What else _is_ there?

“You’re very different. Not just your choices,” she protests when I open my mouth to protest. “Something more fundamental than that.”

“I don’t get it.”

“There’s very little understanding of what comprises a soul, you know,” she says. I'm used to her unexpectedly starting an entirely new topic of conversation so I nod.

“Okay.”

“But if you think about it as the essence of personality, what makes you _you_ , it follows.”

“Does it?” I have no understanding of what she’s saying, but I’ve learned that with Luna, sometimes, just letting her ramble is as effective as trying to follow.

“Hermione wants to speak with you.”

“Hmm.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “You’re very upset with her.”

“Of course I am, Luna. I know that I’ve been viewed as some sort of public property since I was a baby, but I didn’t think that she bought into that. I think that old Harry was too trusting.”

“I think that you should consider watching the memories, Harry,” is all she says.

Draco finds me idly tossing the vial from one hand to another. “What’s that?”

“A message from Hermione,” I say.

“Interesting delivery method.”

“Yeah. I don’t really want to give her another chance to manipulate me. Luna said I should look at them. She seems to think that Hermione took more than my memories.”

He looks startled. “Like what?”

I grin. “With Luna? Who knows. The essence of my personality or something.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I finally nudge him with my foot. “Do you think my personality is missing its _essence_?” I’m smiling, but he won’t look at me. “Oh, you do.” The way he's acting makes me realize that he expects me to feel…something. I mentally shrug as I realize that I don’t have much of any reaction.

There’s some sort of conversation that should be happening, but I am ill-prepared for such a thing, so instead I say, “Let’s go flying.”

Draco sighs. “We should talk about this.”

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s why we should.”

“Later,” I beg.

He gives me another one of those inscrutable looks, but acquiesces. We’re up in the air, and there's something about the way that the sun makes his hair shine, and the pinkness of his cheeks, and the fiercely competitive look in his eyes that makes me pause. It’s like I am struggling to recall a word that eludes me, but that’s not it, exactly. It’s different. If I could just grasp the thought, I’d understand…something. It’s incredibly frustrating, and I fly back to the ground, and throw my broom down, stalking across the lawn.

Draco’s footsteps pound up behind me. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “It’s like I _almost_ know something, but I can’t grasp it. It feels important, and I’m just so _sick_ of this. I can’t believe how much awful shit has happened to me. Do you suppose I’m cursed? Like, born under a rotten star or something?”

Draco wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s stupid. I mean, you’ve had bad shit happen to you too, I’m just being stupid. I just…I really wish I could be normal.”

“And this is the best way to do it?” He pulls me over to a shady arbour, and sits me down on the bench, straddling it so that he can look at me. “Do you think that a fresh slate will really work?”

“I don’t know.”

Draco puts a hand on my cheek. “I’m probably not the best person to advise you on this, you realize.”

“Why not? I think you’re the only person I trust.”

His smile is sad. “I’m not exactly objective. And I don’t really know what the right answer is. I fell in love with ‘old Harry’, as you call him. You’re scornful and dismissive of some of his best qualities, qualities I miss.”

“Like what?”

“Harry, you haven’t had an easy time, and Merlin knows, my family and I have our fair share of responsibility for it. But you’re _kind_ , Harry, and you have the capacity for forgiveness, and love. I watched you, with your Weasleys and Grangers...I’ve never met anyone who loves as fiercely as you.”

"And I'm not like that anymore?" I ask curiously. It's an interesting thought.

"There are hints of those things. You perform kind acts, but in a detached sort of way. You don't really seem invested in anything. I don't think you even _understand_ love anymore."

“It’s done nothing but get me hurt, though. It makes me emotional, prone to overreact.”

He smiles. “It makes you human. Voldemort lived his life without love, Harry. Love saved you.”

I shrugged. “I just don’t see it.”

“I think that might be the problem. I think that’s what Luna meant,” he says gently.

“So you think that Hermione took my ability to love?” I can’t help but sound sneering.

He shrugs. “It’s possible.”

“So you think I should get my memories back?”

“That’s the problem. Before you lost your memories, you didn’t want anything to do with me. You were, ostensibly, straight, and with Ginerva Weasley, and would have likely hexed me if I even tried to talk to you.”

“I don’t know what would happen.”

“And I don’t know what to tell you.” He kisses me gently. “Do you think that maybe you should watch the memories?”

“How does it even work?”

“We’d use a pensieve. It’s a magical device that allows someone to experience memories. You’d pour the liquid memories into the basin, and then plunge your face inside.”

I shudder. “Would you come with me?”

“Would you want me to? It might be very personal.”

“I don’t think I’d like to be alone.”

“Very well.”

The pensieve is an enormous basin, made of ancient-looking stone. There are carved snakes along the outside, and it sits on a stand of weathered copper. It’s in a room I’ve never been in before, and the stone walls dim the flickering torches. I lift the vial, and admire the silvery strands within. “Ready?” Draco’s hand is a bit clammy as he takes mine.

I nod, pour the vial into the pensieve, and we plunge our faces within. We’re instantly at a sunny lakeside, close to a tree, underneath which sit three small figures in black robes. “Hogwarts?” I murmur to Draco.

“Yes. It must be first year,” he replies. The three children are recognizable as Ron, Hermione and myself. I’m thin and unkempt, as though nobody’s ever taught me how to take care of myself. But my expression is relaxed, and the three of us laugh and tease one another, dissolving into uproarious laughter every so often. “I was always so jealous of the three of you,” Draco says. “Slytherins didn’t really have _friends_ , more like connections.”

The memory dissolves into the next one. A taller Hermione and a still-small Harry chase Ron, who’s dragged by a dog underneath a tree that’s going absolutely mad. Why would anyone keep a tree like that around children? Draco and I follow the memory through a filthy tunnel and into a dilapidated house. We watch a scene unfold with a man who looks nearly feral, a shabby looking fellow in Professor’s robes, a tall, oily-looking man in black, and a rat who turns into a man. Draco quickly explains who everyone is, but confesses he had no idea that the events had occurred. The man who Draco identifies as Sirius Black (not looking nearly as hot as in his picture), points his wand at the rat-man, who I learn was responsible for Voldemort finding my parents. Small Harry stands in front of the wand, pleads mercy on the rat’s behalf, explaining that he wants Sirius to be freed, that his parents wouldn’t have wanted Remus and Sirius to murder him. His face shines with a passion I can’t really understand, but there’s no denying his sincerity. Have I felt anything approaching such fervency in all of the times I’ve remembered? I ignore the small Harry, pleading for the life of his parents’ betrayers, and think. In the Department of Mysteries? Did I care enough about protecting Draco’s son? Of course not, I realize. I didn’t know the child, and barely knew Draco. But, I knew my parents even less, and the miasma of emotions on that child’s face, hurt and loss coupled with righteousness and desire to do what was right…I know intrinsically that I’ve not felt anything so complex since awaking in St. Mungo’s.

I’m distracted by my wavering surroundings and we’re into another memory. It’s taken from the perspective of a set of rings at the end of a pitch, and there are red and green robed broom riders swooping about. Two such players hover high above the rest. I assume this is one of Ron’s memories, and he’s watching the play, while also casting the odd look up at the small blond and dark haired figures. Suddenly, the darker one abruptly dives, directly in the direction of the rings, quickly followed by the blond. They jostle for position as they streak through the air, until finally, the darker one, who I confirm is a younger me, lunges forward and snatches a shimmering gold orb out of the air. The blond, who, of course, is Draco lets out a howl of frustration, and collides with small Harry. In the instant before the memory shifts away, I spy a look of such joyful glee on younger Harry’s face that so captivates me, I barely notice the surroundings shift.

It’s a seaside, and a slightly older Harry is kneeling beside the prone figure of a house elf. As the burial proceeds, I watch his face keenly. His expression is hard, but within his eyes lies a galaxy of anguish. It is as though, if he were to allow any of his feelings to emerge, that they would dissolve him completely. He draws his wand, and inscribes an epitaph on the gravestone.

“That’s my wand,” Draco remarks. “And my elf, actually.” I barely hear him, trying desperately to understand what lies behind the mask on my younger face. I know instinctively that I won’t be able to comprehend it. If my feelings were a faucet, the tap has been wrenched so violently that only the tiniest trickle now emerges.

The next memory is of a showdown with someone who’s clearly Lord Voldemort. I can’t really bring myself to listen to what the younger me, and the terrifying snake-man are saying, but it’s interesting to watch the spectators. They’re looking at old Harry like he’s some sort of saviour. He’s so young. Why would people follow this child onto a battlefield? Because it's clear from their expressions that they would…or _have_ , if their appearance is any indication. There’s no way that this young man had any sort of experience or strategy to lead them with. But their faces….they believe in him. I study his face, and again feel the frustration of seeing a complex whirl of emotions that I don’t understand. I hear the way his voice sounds quiet and sure as he confronts his parents’ murderer. As the monster falls, and lies dead, and a huge roar of victory fills the air, I study his face even more closely. There’s relief, and a sudden expression of satisfaction, and something so complex I don’t begin to try to interpret it.

The last memory is very short. It’s Ron and Hermione’s house, in one of the bedrooms that I don’t recall. It’s clearly a nursery, and old Harry is sitting in a rocking chair, holding a much younger Rose Weasley in his arms. Her eyes are open, and wide, locked with his as he gazes down at her. His expression is another complex one, but he's clearly very moved at the sight of what has been a long-awaited member of the family. There’s something fierce in the way that old Harry regards her, as though the merest hint of a danger would prompt him to slay monsters on her behalf.

Draco and I are ejected from the Pensieve and we sit on the floor of the room, quiet. “Did that help?” 

I shrug. “It helped me to understand the difference between how I was and how I am now. But I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

“Voldemort _couldn’t_ love, they say,” Draco says contemplatively. “I read somewhere that he was conceived under a love potion, and as a result, he couldn’t really feel complex emotions.”

“From the sounds of things, he was good at hating,” I point out.

“He was,” Draco agrees. “But empathy, or loyalty…not so much. He killed Severus Snape, who he believed was completely loyal, to win a wand. He didn’t regret it in the slightest.”

I laugh, but it’s a hollow, empty sound. “So Hermione actually pushed me closer to being a Dark Lord.”

“I doubt that. You don’t seem to have the same crippling ambition that he did. It would be a lot of work to become a Dark Lord, and you seem to want to work in an ice cream parlour.”

“Saved by laziness,” I respond lightly. “I get why this is such a jarring difference, though,” I finally continue. “That bloke in the memory, he’s nothing _but_ feelings. 

“During our sixth year at Hogwarts,” Draco says finally, “I, as you have heard, was set an impossible task. The stress was unbearable, and the consequences of my failure was on my mind constantly. I began to dissemble, and if it wasn’t for Severus, reminding of my training, I…well, who knows what would have happened? At any rate, Severus did remind me, and I made use of my occlumency shields, to protect me from the worst of my emotional turmoil. At first, I only occluded when necessary…in classes or during meals, times when I would be watched. By the time the year began to wane, I was occluding constantly, which is dangerous.”

“It is?” I ask. “I didn’t know that.” Draco and I had discussed occlumency early on, during a somewhat tense conversation about how Draco was able to keep his emotions so tightly guarded.

“The mind isn’t meant to be manipulated like that. As children, when Pureblooded parents teach their children to build basic skills, it’s part of the fundamental lessons, and parents will actively monitor how often their heirs make use of it. It’s one of the reasons why I was so furious with Hermione for her ham-fisted attempts to manage your wild magic. If someone occludes for too long, they can experience a complete disassociation with their emotions. The night that you confronted me in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was the first time that I had dropped my shields in months. Having all of that fear and pain come back all at once nearly broke my mind.”

He smiled, a bit bitterly. “If you hadn’t blundered in and startled me, I can’t imagine what would have happened. Instead, you managed to thoroughly ground me, and likely saved my life. Ironic, really.”

“So you’ve experienced both the detachment that I’m feeling now, and the ability to feel your emotions more normally. What would you do if you were me?”

“You realize that I’m not exactly impartial?” I nod. Draco steps to the pensieve and removes Hermione’s memories before raising his wand to his forehead and extracting a silvery strand, which he places in the basin. “Come,” he says gently.

I follow him into the pensieve. The setting is Scorpius’ nursery, and Draco is holding what appears to be a newborn. He gazes down at the baby with heartbreaking tenderness, and whispers, “My son, I promise that there is nothing that I won’t do for you. I will protect you with all that I am, and all that I have. You are my future, and I will guard you with my very life.”

Draco pulls me from the pensieve and smiles at me. “I’m the last person to tell you that life is easy, Harry. For every happy memory I have, there are ten more that are devastating. But the happy ones? They’re _why_ we live.”


	11. Chapter 11

It takes nearly a week of uncomfortable indecision before I finally agree to have Hermione restore my memories. I’m fearful of the consequences of my action, but I have to admit, living this sort of bland life, where I never particularly feel anything, would soon grow awfully boring. Draco assures me that this leap of faith with little consideration of risk is fully in character for me.

Hermione arrives, Ron in tow, late that afternoon. I don’t look at her. Ron seems awkward, but grasps my shoulder and says, “Alright, mate?” 

“Yeah,” I say. 

Draco sequesters Hermione for a detailed review of her research, and the planned procedure for restoring my memories. I know I’d be welcome to listen, but to be honest, I’d likely understand less than half of it, and I trust Draco to stop her if she’s doing something ill-advised. 

Besides, I’m nowhere near ready to talk to Hermione. Despite the fact that I’ve tried not to consider it at all, my thoughts have returned to her periodically. I recognize that her intentions were good, and her actions were stupid, and isn’t that basically the story of my own life? But. She made a decision, one that affected my life, without telling me. It’s possible that someday, I might forgive her, and maybe someday after that, I might be friendly with her. But someday is a long way away, and I have no intention of rushing that.

Instead, Ron and I entertain Scorpius with the bubble charm. Ron is excellent with babies. I’m still pretty unsure what to do with him, but Scorp is a nice enough little fellow, and he puts up with most of my nonsense. He babbles happily as he reaches out to pop the bubbles I’m producing. I’m surprisingly relaxed. There’s nothing I can do to change things, so I’m happy to go with the flow. Fortunately, Ron doesn’t seem to want to talk about feelings or anything. He’s a restful friend to have, despite my complicated feelings about his wife.

“What will you do about your wild magic?”

“Dunno,” I say. “Try not to get mad? I expect not working for the nutters at the Ministry will help.”

He grins. “Sounds about right.”

After a hearty tea, and long after Narcissa has taken Scorpius for his nap, Draco finally decides that Hermione’s methodology is sound enough.

“Harry,” Hermione says.

I look at her evenly. “I don’t want to talk about anything. Not now.”

Her face falls. “I understand.”

Draco puts his arm around me. “I think that we should do this in one of the spare suites. I expect that you’ll need some time to recover from having your memories restored so quickly, so this way we won’t have to levitate you anywhere.”

Once I’m tucked into a sizeable bed in a suite, Draco sits beside me to take my hand. “Ready?” 

“I suppose.”

“It will be okay,” he says. “No matter what happens.”

“If…um…if I’m _different_ when I wake up, I just wanted to say-”

“I know,” he replies. “Me too.” His eyes are the only thing that betrays his fear. I incline my neck and he kisses me. For a small moment, I want to tell Hermione to leave, to call it off, and then I remember that strange longing that’s been scraping out my insides since I looked at the memories. Win or lose, I want to try for it all.

Hermione gives me a potion, which I take after a nod from Draco. It’s pleasant, tasting of mint, and I’m still licking my lips when she uncaps a vial, similar to the memories that she sent me earlier, only much larger. She starts to incant in latin, and the silvery fluid rises out of the vial, and surrounds me. I can catch glimpses of faces, and events, and colours, but soon the fluid coalesces into a misty veil that obscures my vision. Hermione’s chanting grows louder, and the mist moves in closer. I hold my breath at first, but as I’m forced to breathe, I inhale the mist. A few breaths later, and my senses are overwhelmed with stimulation. It’s as though I’ve thrown myself into a pool filled with intense emotion, and physical sensations, and loud sounds. I panic, trying not to breathe, but I feel a tap on my chest, and I’m heaving in vast gasps. The sense of overwhelm increases, and suddenly, everything fades to comforting black.

Some time later, I awaken in a completely different room. I sit up, but as my brain tries to catalogue the memories that have been poured into my system, I flop backwards.

“Easy,” a voice says.

“Hello?”

“Shh, Harry, it’s okay.” I know that voice, even as I realize that I can’t possibly be hearing it.

“Remus?”

“Yes, cub. Don’t panic. You’re fine, you’re not mad, you’re alive. Your system was a little overwhelmed, and your brain is working overtime to process the sensations of two decade’s worth of memories.”

“Oh. It’s good to see you, though.”

“You too. You’ve stayed out of trouble, I see.” He smiles indulgently at me.

“As much as I ever do. Do I need to do anything to help things along?”

“Not a thing, cub.”

“Remus? I’m frightened,” I say. Then, I realize. “Oh! I’m frightened. I haven’t felt that since…”

“What are you frightened of?”

“Everyone who knows me says that I was different after I lost my memories. What if I go back to how I was? I don’t want to be old Harry. I don’t completely want to be new Harry. How do I balance?”

“I understand, Harry. You’ve just summarized the great struggle of my life. How do I balance the duality of what I am? The man and the wolf?”

“Did you figure it out?”

He laughs. “Perhaps. Tonks helped. A metamorphagus has no true form, did you know? Because they can change their appearance at will, even in utero, they’re rather like a boggart. It’s impossible to identify their original form.”

“Wow. That’s interesting, but does the physical characteristics make that much of a difference?”

“I don’t know, Harry. How much of your self identity came from having your Father’s hair, your Mother’s eyes, Voldemort’s scar?”

The memories are still shifting and sorting, but I understand his point. “Lots, I suppose.”

“How much of your self-esteem was based on your relatives treatment of you? Based on your ability to produce magic? Based on the responsibility of being the Chosen One?”

“Point,” I say. “So what does that mean? That nothing matters?”

“Nothing matters, or everything matters, or, as I came to realize, our choices and actions in the moment matter most of all.” He smiles, and rests a hand on my head. “Your past is a gift, Harry, but it shouldn’t overshadow the present, and it shouldn’t fully define the future.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yes, certainly. What was your biggest concern with getting back your memories, and with them, the ability to truly feel your emotions?”

“That I’d hate the decisions I’ve made since I lost my memories. That I’d regret the changes I made. That I’d regret Draco.”

“And do you?”

I think for a moment. I see the way the sun shone through his hair as he flew, the way he looked at his son with reverence, the way that he looked at _me_. “No,” I say, sighing with relief. 

“Well then.” His smile grows wistful. “I think you’ll be waking up soon.”

“I wish you were still with us.”

“Me too, Harry. Be well, cub.”

My eyes feel as though they have weights on them. I try and try to open them, but it takes an enormous effort. Finally, though, they flutter open. “Harry?”

“Draco?” My voice is croaky.

“How are you feeling?”

“Dunno.” I take a quick inventory. “M'brain feels heavy.”

He laughs. Hermione is standing slightly behind him. “Harry, where did we brew the Polyjuice Potion, second year?”

“Myrtle’s bathroom.” My voice is slurred, but I’ve clearly remembered right, because she starts to sob. Ron, who has appeared in my field of vision, pulls her into his chest, and she winds around him like a vine. 

“Thank Merlin!” I hear Draco’s voice, and I try to respond, but everything’s heavy, and tired, and I slip into sleep again.

When I awaken next, it’s dark. I fumble for my glasses, and hear a sleepy mutter beside me. “Draco?”

“Feel better?”

I mumble a bit incoherently, but manage to find his hand and clasp it in the darkness. Before I can say anything else, I’ve drifted off again. This pattern repeats itself for some time, and finally, I awaken to dim pre-dawn grey, able to keep my eyes open for more than seconds at a stretch.

Draco is sleeping next to me, and purple smudges underneath his lashes suggest he’s been sleeping poorly. Careful not to disturb him, I edge out from under the covers, and perch on the windowsill. Alone, and coherent, I survey myself. My memories seem to have slotted themselves back into order. I remember a dusty cupboard, ‘You’re a wizard, Harry’, Phoenix, and basilisk, and Sectumsempra, and a skinny ex-convict, and a lonely walk through a forest, and a train station. I remember how fighting a troll means best friends, and that bossiness can mean care, and jealousy can mean being valued. 

I remember a red-haired little girl who blushed and ran out of the room every time I spoke to her, and how my love for her as an adult felt alarmingly similar to what I felt for Ron and Hermione, and I remember Uncle Vernon’s harsh criticism of ‘poofs’, and sleepless nights wondering how I could be part of a family that wasn’t mine to claim. 

I remember an unwavering fixation to stalk around in my invisibility cloak to figure out what was going on, and determined grey eyes across a Quidditch pitch, and a hunched figure crying desperately over a broken sink. I remember how not identifying someone can be as heroic as a broom rescue over an inferno. I remember a set of dimples, and a cheeky smirk, and a father who would give his magic to save his son, and how when those grey eyes look into mine, I feel seen, and treasured.

Oh. _Oh_. I understand now. I steal back under the covers, and wrap my arms around Draco. He sighs, and lays his head on my chest. “Draco,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I know you’re tired, but I wanted to tell you something.”

He pulls away, and his eyes open, but he won’t meet mine. “Go ahead,” he says.

“I still like sleeping with men. You, specifically,” I whisper.

His eyes flick to look into mine, and I try to tell him everything with my gaze. “I like the rest of you just as much,” I continue. 

His smile is hesitant. “That’s good,” he says finally.

“Mmm,” I agree, placing a gentle kiss on the end of his nose. 

“So nothing’s changed? You feel exactly the same about me?” It’s costing him to ask me this.

I smile, and my long-ignored emotions are painful. “ _Everything’s_ changed, Draco. I don’t even know how to describe it. I think about you, and I feel…melty.”

He laughs. “Melty? So articulate, Potter.”

“Git,” I say fondly. “It’s like everything I felt for you in school finally makes sense now. And now that we’re not hexing one another, I can see my feelings for what they are. I think it’s always been you, Draco.”

His smile grows, and two tiny circles of pink appear on his cheekbones.

“Merlin, Draco, I can’t believe how close I was to making the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Well, fortunately, you’ve got me to keep you from making any other such mistakes in the future.”

“Have I? Got you?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

The joy rises up like a bubble, filling my stomach with tingly excitement, and making my chest feel tight. I want to weep, and laugh, and most of all, I want to kiss Draco until he loses that smug little smirk.

So I do.

_Finite._


End file.
